Omens
by MissJanuary
Summary: One hundred years of swirling, living ink. Layers of words, history unravelling on skin. Tattward and Inkella. Not a fairytale.
1. Prologue

**Omens**

**A/N: Plot's mine, but the characters belong to SM. No infringement intended. **

**My beta team this time around: Maxipoo1024 and Lynzylee. **

**Some of the standard warnings apply: Language, lemons, and of course my Canadian spelling. That being said, I feel like I should issue another warning not common to my writing, and if you were paying attention to the genre, you've got an idea. This is a supernatural tragedy. That's all I'm sayin'. Know your limits, read within them.**

**Thanks for checking it out and I'll catch ya at the bottom ... I hope. **

_**~Prologue~**_

The mark on his back, the tattoo that branded him for what he was, pulsed in a steady rhythm—a pulse he'd followed half way around the country like a beacon to the shore, a beat that pulled him forward. His head snapped up, and his eyes scanned the early morning crowd. Across the street a slender brunette walked quickly down the damp sidewalk. She weaved between business suits and dodged tourists with a tray of coffee in one hand and a brown bag clutched in the other. Her dark hair swayed with each step of her cherry red Docs.

His deep green eyes zeroed in on the girl, and a painful throb bloomed between his shoulder blades. She hooked a sharp right and took off down an alley, her boots kicking up spray as she marched through the puddles littering the alleyway. As she disappeared behind a building, the tattoo's trembling rhythm receded.

He'd found his _story_, and as he stood staring down the alleyway, he felt the first words of her story etch into his right shoulder. He was there to Witness her story from wax to wane. And that story was to start here, on the corner of Toulouse and Royal.

He pushed up his sleeve and watched as darker than black print appeared. Two words started off this story. Much like '_the end'_ brings a story to a close, these two words would open it:

_**Isabella Swan **_

**END NOTES: I swear the coming chapters won't be so short. Thanks for checking it out. **

**~MissJanuary**


	2. Swan Dive

**AN: Not mine. No infringement intended.**

**Still with me? Good, let's get to it then. Catch ya at the bottom, lovelies. **

**Beta buddies: Maxipoo and the lovely Lynzylee. Thank you girls!**

**~Chapter One~**

_~Swan Dive~_

**March 9, 2014 **

Humid. The rain broke the heat bubble that had surrounded the city and left everything damp and sultry.

Moisture clung to her body and weighed down her hair, but she smiled and breathed in the smell of rain and wet asphalt. She looked at the heavy door before her and then down to her full hands. Her booted foot shot out, and she kicked at the gray steel door.

"Open up, whore, or I dump the coffee!" Isabella hollered her watery threat with a bright grin.

The door slowly swung open, revealing a busty, curvaceous blonde with bright red lips that quirked in a smug grin. She stood aside holding the door open with her foot.

"We both know you're full of steaming shit, Little Bird," the curvy blonde said, snagging a cup from the tray as Isabella waltzed past her. "You need this juice just as much as I do."

Isabella just chuckled, walked to the front of the shop, and tossed the brown bag full of doughnuts on the reception desk. She pulled a coin from her pocket and held it up. "Ready, Rosie?"

Rosie nodded and eyed the coin pinched between Isabella's fingers. She hated that coin, or rather the task associated with it. The fucking supply run.

Every Friday they flipped a coin; loser had the misfortune of dealing with the local supplier— and pervert—Allan Wingerbe. Allan thought he was the bee's knees. Sadly, he was alone in that belief. He was ruthless in his pursuit of _tail_—his word. And spending even the briefest amount of time with him left the girls feeling dirty and _skeezed over_—Rosie's words.

Isabella flipped the coin and it toppled head over tail before landing in her palm. She opened her fist and together they peered at the dull silver coin.

"Heads. You're it, Little Bird," Rosie said, patting her friend on the shoulder. "For the best really. I swear if that skeevie bastard smacks his lips at me one more time, we're gonna need a new supplier, and Imma need an alibi." The lazy, whiskey soaked drawl of Rosie's voice gave her away as a southern Louisiana belle. Her Es and Rs often dropped away or rolled into an A sound. Isabella's accent, by comparison, was soft with just the tiniest hint of smoke and wine to it—barely noticeable.

Isabella and Rosie went about the opening routine; cleaning work stations, topping up the artist supplies, and going over the appointments scheduled for the day.

_Swan Dive_ was all Isabella had ever wanted. She'd gone to community college for business during the day, apprenticed with a local tattoo parlour in the afternoons, and busted her ass at a hole-in-the-wall pub every night and weekend for years. She tucked away every spare dollar and saved every tip until the day came that she could afford a shop of her own_._

_Swan Dive _had been open and thriving in New Orleans for four years, and Rosie had been a part of it from the get-go.

"How'd the date with Dr. Smiley go?" Rosie asked, dropping the tubes and needles into the bleach solution.

"Marcus?" Isabella spun in her chair to face her friend. "Meh." She shrugged and twirled the pen in her fingers. "He talked about teeth a lot. Molars, crowns, and the highlight of the dinner … abbesses."

Rosie snorted, dropping the last of the tubes in the container and pulling the gloves from her hands.

"Pasta and abbesses. Charmin'. So I take it the dry spell continues?"

Isabella rolled her eyes. "Longest streak ever!" Tossing the pen down on the desk, she spun again, reeling around in circles, and said in a sing song voice, "Oh, but the beautiful boy that waited on our taa-ble." She sighed dramatically and fanned herself. "Hotter than two goats in a pepper patch."

"Ooh?" That piqued her interest, and her ears.

"Hmm." She hummed. "Poor Marcus. Caught me in a hot little daydream. Mouth full of Cajun shrimp and my head a million miles away."

Rosie rolled her chair closer, her brows raised in a curious look. "Hot?"

"Pinned against a wall, lip biting kinda hot. Then Marcus went and popped my steamy little bubble by opening his pretty mouth again. Did you know that dentists have one of the highest suicide rates in the US?"

"Everyone knows that, Bell."

"Well I didn't. An' who in the happy fuck says shit like that on a _date_?"

Rose's upper lip curled and she shook her head.

"Yea, that's where the date ended."

"On such a sweet note," Rosie said in a flat voice, her eyes crossing and her mouth gaping. "Next one's my pick, Bella girl." She grabbed a doughnut and bit into it, giving Isabella a sharp look.

"Right, so long as you let me introduce you to Emmett."

Mouthful of doughy goodness, she mumbled, "No point." She dusted the sugar off her chest and stood, taking a bottle of Windex and a cloth with her, determined to avoid the topic, even if it meant doing the fucking windows.

"Come on—"

"Men want skinny bitches like you. They can't handle the curve, darlin'." Her hand grazed her side, skipped over her rounded hip, and then smacked her ass, looking over her shoulder at the brunette shoving a whole doughnut in her mouth at once. She always tried to keep her excuses and gripes light, but the notes always dropped a little too sour.

"Emmett's not like that. He's not like most men."

"They're all the same, Llittle Bird."

Bella heaved a sigh. "He's sweet, and funny, and damn hot, and I think—"

"Stop thinking, doll."

"Like arguing with a fence post," Bella grumbled. She walked up behind Rose and placed her hands on Rosie's hips. "You're sexy as hell."

"I'm fat." She sprayed the window in front of her and stared straight ahead, not really seeing the movement out on the street, or the man standing under the lamp post watching the shop.

Bella pressed her body against Rose's beautiful form. "You're afraid," she whispered.

Six years ago Rose's world had been twixt and twined with that of one Royce King, a man so far above his raisin' it was hard to see the attraction, a snob through and through. Royce was four years her senior, and Rosie was the quintessential eye candy—trim with curves in all the right places. She was a trophy, something to show off to his high society friends. Bright and shiny for the outside world, but behind closed doors things were dim, tarnished, and sometimes downright bloody.

The day Rosalie Hale left Royce King, she swore no man would ever get that close again. She'd never allow another to build her up so high only to break her down like that. Rose gained thirty pounds that year. She built a wall around her, packed on flesh like amour.

"Wear my shoes, pumpkin," Rosie said in a sad voice. She dropped her tattooed arms to her sides. Bella had no idea what it felt like, sweet and loving as she was, she'd never lived through what Rose had.

"Take 'em off! Buy new shoes." She squeezed Rose's hips and rested her chin on her friend's shoulder.

"Am I interrupting an intimate moment, ladies? Mind if I watch? I promise I'll be quiet as a June bug."

Bella and Rose turned slowly.

Mike stood, arms crossed over his broad, sculpted chest, swirls of colour peeking out around the sleeves of his tight black shirt. His blond, shaggy hair standing in every direction. Black, blue, and grey smoke crawled up the back of his neck and licked at his chrome pierced ears. His bright blue eyes twinkled with mischief and maybe a little too much hope.

Rose wrapped her arms around Bella and pulled her close.

"Ladies, don't tease." Mike's grin grew.

"Maybe we call Jess, see if she wants to join in," Bella suggested in coy voice.

"Wife is _always_ down. You know that." And indeed she would have been. Mike walked to his station, flipped open his laptop, and scanned his appointments for the day.

)*(

An hour later, Bella flipped the switch on the neon "Open" sign and unlocked the door.

"So Jazz'll be in at noon for that back piece he's got going. Bree's got two smaller tats, so she'll be on walk-ins, and my lucky ass lost the toss this morning, so I'm on supplies." Bella grabbed the inventory list off the desk and shoved it in her pocket along with her phone. "If the shit hits the fan, call. Otherwise, kiddies, I'll be back in about two hours. Wish me luck!"

)*(

Across the street an Omen stood, quiet and still; his vivid green eyes fixed on the slim brunette that slipped out the front door of _Swan Dive Tattoos _and snaked down the street with ease. He walked two blocks, parallel to Isabella, watching her as she twirled a key ring around her index finger. She rounded the driver's side door of a lime green 1968 Camaro and slid into the seat like warm butter into a frying pan.

This was her safe spot, her favourite spot, and it showed in the way her body molded to the sticky, warm leather interior, in the way her fingers curled around the wheel, and in the way her face relaxed and an easy smile melted across her lips.

"Nice wheels," the Omen said to no one at all, nodding his approval. "Terrible fuckin' colour though." Once the engine of the green car purred to life, he spun on his heels and made a quick move for his own car, a 1957 Chevy pickup truck in gunmetal grey.

He tailed her for about thirty-five minutes before parking her happy place in the parking lot of _Wingerbe Body Modification Supplies_. The name _Wingerbe_ took up most of the overhead sign; the rest was pretty much fine print.

The Omen dropped his head and rolled his eyes. "The human ego, ever the fucking same."

He cut the engine and watched as Isabella took a deep breath and pulled the door open. The corner of his mouth twitched into a smirk at the reluctance Isabella gave off.

His arm burned and his nerves jerked as new words wrote themselves into his skin. He sighed and rubbed his arm, used to but never comfortable with the Witnessing.

)*(

Allan stood, cocksure and smiling, behind his sales counter. The closer she stepped, the larger his grin grew. His rusty, red hair was slicked back, and his _come an' get it _look unnerved Bella.

"Cupcake, what can I do ya for?" His grin went supernova, and she had to fight back an eye roll.

Bella stitched on her pleasant smile and said, "Hey, Allan." She fished the list out of her back pocket and slid it across the counter. Tapping it once with her index finger, and she looked up to Allan, who was —predictably— staring at her chest. Her Miss Nice smile slipped. "It's not _cupcake_, it's Isabella."

She hated his pet names: cupcake, sweets, sugar plum. All of it screamed chauvinistic pig. He clucked as if she'd said something cute and charming; he looked over the list once, Bella twice. "Give me ten minutes or so to get this together."

Nodding, Bella leaned into countertop, admiring a Dragonfly tattoo machine in "crazy lime," a colour not far from the shade of the Camaro sitting in the parking lot.

Less than ten minutes passed when Allan re-emerged from the back, a brown cardboard box in his arms. He placed in on the glass counter and then bent over it, moving closer to Bella.

"So, uh … we should go grab a coffee, ya think?" His thumb swept across his lips, his tongue followed in a move that was surely meant to be seductive but fell dead flat.

Slapping a credit card down on the glass countertop, she reached out and pulled the box to her chest. "Just ring it up, Allan." Her dark, muddy eyes begged him not to fuck with her.

Allan barked out an annoyed grunt, then went about his job, plucking the card off the counter and swiping it. Isabella ignored him and busied herself with her phone.

**B:** On my way back.

**R: **Did ya feed him his balls?

**B:** Nah, feeling generous today. But I could eat. Tell me my lunch is waiting for me.

Allan handed her the receipt to sign and with a saccharine grin, she penned her name, grabbed the box, and made for the door.

**R:** Lunch is waiting … and your sister's in the back room blowing Jazz.

**End Notes: And that's where we'll start this. It's a slow and simple beginning, but be warned, it won't stay simple. This going to be darker than I normally write.**

**Ok, so I'm Canadian and had to do a lot of digging and research on the general area, accents, and my favourite part, the quirky southern sayings. After reading notes from my pre-reader (thanks Lynzylee) I figured I should maybe include a dictionary of sorts. So here ya go.**

**Southern Sayings:**

"**Hotter than two goats in a pepper patch" = Hot!**

"**Argue with a fence post" = Stubborn**

"**Above his/her raisin'" = Snob**

**So tell me what you're thinking so far. I want your words folks. **

**Catch ya in the next chapter. **


	3. Lay and Wait

**AN: I don't own Twilight, th****at belongs to SM, but this plotline is all mine, so is the bag of chocolate covered gummies I've got. **

**Many thanks to Maxipoo, I owe her my first born. The playlist she made me for this story is fuckin' amazaballs! ILY, Max. My pre-reader Lynzylee gets the gold pom-poms for her cheerleading. She is made of wonderful and I owe her boob squishes. **

**Harass me on social media: Twitter JanuarysFiction (MissJanuary)**

**FaceBook: MissJanuary FanFiction**

**P.S. This chapter's a short one. Sorry. **

**Chapter 2**

_~Lay and Wait~_

A small, elfin looking woman with long, raven black hair sat behind Isabella's desk, her legs crossed and her foot bouncing as she hummed a peppy tune. Her icy grey eyes meticulously scanned columns of numbers: cost versus profit, overhead, expenses—numbers, numbers, numbers. Her coral sweater and pinstripe, charcoal skirt hid the cherry blossom creeping up her left side; a delicate pink blossom caressed the underside of her breast.

"Everyone knows," Isabella whispered from the doorway, startling the petite woman. She walked forward, eyeing the girl, placed the box of supplies on the desk, and took a seat across from her sister.

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."

"Wanna bet?" Bella reached across the desk, opened the top drawer, and groped around until her fingers found what they were looking for—a bag of cherry licorice. She plopped back down in the chair and pulled a stick from the bag, pointing it at her sister like a weapon. "I don't understand why you're playing hide-and-go-fuck with Jasper, Mary Alice."

Mary Alice shook her dark, perfectly curled hair, her cheeks pinking up a little. "Nope. No there's been no fucking."

"Fellatio only then?"

"Heavy petting, mostly. And his digits may have slipped once … err … four times." Mary Alice's face bloomed red as a tomato.

Bella snorted. "So why you sneakin' around then? You like him, right?"

"It's just th—"

"No, Mar. Yes or no: do you like him?"

Mary Alice slumped a little further into her chair, her eyes refusing to meet Isabella's. "Yes."

"Do you want him?"

"Yes," she said in a whisper.

"Then whatever bull-hucky excuse you're about to feed me, whatever _but_ you're about to spew … stop. Jasper is smart, talented, sexy as fuck, well off. You're twenty-seven, not seventeen, so don't make this about the numbers. Eleven years is peanuts, baby girl. Fucking peanuts, and no reason not to go for it." Isabella was used to this—the laundry list of reasons why not to get involved with someone. She also knew why Alice did it, why she looked for excuses to push people away.

)*(

**April 1998**

_A blonde woman stood at the end of a bridge, invisible to passersby, the rain coming down in thick sheets. Her clothes clung to her soaked body and her makeup ran down her face, mixing with the rain and her tears._

_The Witnessing was near its end; she could feel it. Words were quickly searing into her skin, making her back ache and burn. _

_Lightning streaked across the night sky, and bright blooms of white, blue, and pink lit the dark street for a quick moment. _

_Tires screeched._

_The sound of glass shattering and metal crunching was swallowed up by the clap of thunder overhead. _

_A final breath was exhaled, and with it the last words of the story were branded into Jane's pale skin. Their history had been Witnessed, their story told. Jane turned away from the wreckage and disappeared into the storm, following the pulse and pull of another story waiting for its ending. _

)*(

"So that's that, Mary Alice Olivia! You're gonna claim Jasper as your own. End of fucking story."

"And say what, Little Bird?"

The nickname, Little Bird, was born years ago and had since been the source of many an eye roll or secret giggle over the years. Riley, an ex-boyfriend, had assigned it to her and it stuck despite the fact that the Swan, her surname and the root of the nickname, was in fact a rather large bird. Coming from her younger sister, the name was even more absurd.

"Oh, I don't know, maybe, 'I like you, and I'm pretty sure you like me. 'Cause, ya know, you put your dick in my mouth and all. So let's make it official.' Something like that might work." Bella bit a piece of licorice and quirked an eyebrow.

With her hand to her head and mock shock spray-painted on her pretty, pale face, Alice said, "Such a foul fucking thing. Don't ever change." They chuckled and Isabella chewed on her cherry candy. "So that's it?"

"Huh-uh," Bella hummed, bobbing her head.

And with that, the conversation was closed. Mary Alice went back to the books and Isabella neatly put away the supplies she'd purchased.

)*(

Two doors down at a tiny cafe sat a woman with caramel coloured hair, a neat floral dress, and light blue patent heels. She sipped her pricey mocha and smiled as the Witnessing began and a familiar, comforting warmth spread down her back. She smiled and looked up to the cloudy, darkening sky.

)*(

Across town in a small, dingy hotel room, Masen sat on a brown—might have been grey at one point—ottoman, the TV throwing a green-blue glow around the room. Long shadows stretched out around the room, flickering and dancing in the Tvs glow. The bed was rumpled and two pancake-thin pillows laid stacked one upon the other, his shirt unceremoniously chucked just inside the door.

A little more than two weeks ago, he arrived in New Orleans, following the dull pulse burrowed under his skin. Sometimes it took months to find his _story_, others only days. In the time since he'd arrived, he managed to secure a job at a pub around the corner; unfortunately Omens were not well compensated for their _services_. The constant moving left no room for any sort of life or career. He'd been around the world and back again in his ninety-nine years. It'd been nearly a century since Masen had a home of his own or lover in his bed for more than a quick blink. Omens lived lonely lives. Part of the punishment, he supposed.

His started in an hour, and he was more than happy to be leaving the confines of the tiny, old shoe-smelling room. In a past life he wouldn't be caught dead in a place like this, and the years hadn't curbed his bitterness one bit.

He rose from his seat and pulled a black button-down off a hanger. He shrugged into it and rolled the sleeves up his forearms, leaving plenty of material to conceal the story silently unfolding on his bare arms. Grabbing his keys, he made for the door and out into the night, disappearing into the shadows of the streets below.

)*(

Lucy's Retired Surfer Bar was in full swing. The heat of the night air seeped into the bar, stealing the crisp coolness the air conditioner tried exhaustively to maintain. Bodies moved between the restaurant and the open patio outside. Drinks with small toy sharks bobbing in bloody looking liquor seemed to be a crowd favourite. Music, quiet enough for conversation but loud enough to head bob or for an ass shake from time to time, piped through the bar.

"That would have been a lot less awkward—maybe even romantic—if she'da left out that bit about his junk," Bree said, her nose wrinkling. The youngest artist at Swan Dive was, oddly, the most prudish. She never swore, never drank; though newly twenty-one, you'd think she'd be swimming in it, beer goggles firmly in place. And any mention of a reproductive organ had her sweet face puckered in a comical grimace. Given the company she kept, her face looked like that a lot of the time.

"Well, I for one am damn proud of our little closet freak. Took balls to say that to his face," Rose said with a smirk, taking a little too much enjoyment in the way Bree's brown eyes narrowed at her.

"Little sister's growing up." Isabella put her hand over her heart and wiped a nonexistent tear from her eye.

"Little sister's likely in the back seat of Jasper's car with her panties around her ankles." Mike winked and raised his beer in salute, his wife, Jess tucked close to his side.

Bree rolled her eyes and Bella chuckled.

Bella's phone vibrated on the table in front of her. Taking it in her hand, she glanced down at the screen.

**BigEm**: Is it safe?

**B:** Four drinks in. She's feeling friendly.

Bella put the phone face down on the table and looked up at Rosie, giving her a wink and mouthing _I love you_. Rosie's brow furrowed for a quick second and then her red lips picked up in a tipsy smile. Three minutes later, that smile went sideways.

"Emmett Hudson McCarty the second," he said, extending his hand to a stunned and steaming Rosalie.

"Rosalie Hale," she said, smiling sweetly at Emmett, but throwing daggers at Isabella. She held out her hand and gave him a dainty shake.

"Don't worry, Em, that stick up her ass isn't permanent. Enough lube and it should slide right out." Bella wagged her eyebrows and waved a redheaded waitress over. "Speaking of which, ya'll want another?" She looked around the table. "Three beers, refill that Coke there, and can I get a gin and tonic for the sexy blonde over here?"

"Course." The redhead smiled as she cleared the empties.

Rosie leaned sideways, her face tucked close to Bella's ear. "Gettin' me drunk won't make the ass beatin' Imma give you any less painful, Little Bird." The gin saturated her accent and endings dropped from words left and right. Bella only smiled widely.

As the night went on, Emmett inched closer to Rose, and maybe it was the booze, but she didn't seem to mind. Emmett's kindness made her comfortable. His easy smiles made her naturally friendly disposition shine through, almost enough to overshadow the insecurities she harboured. Though she giggled at his jokes and seemed to enjoy the conversation, her back remained tense and straight, and sometimes he'd catch a quick flicker of something in her violet eyes. Shame, maybe? Fear? Whatever it was, he made up his mind that his sole mission in life would be to wipe that all away.

)*(

"Hold on to this asshat while I flag him a cab, will ya, Jake?" Masen handed off an obviously drunken cowboy to his co-worker and stepped out onto the dark street in front of Lucy's. He hailed a cab and wrenched open the door.

Jake passed off the sloshed man, shaking his head at the incoherent ranting coming from his whiskey soaked mouth. Masen roughly folded him into the back of cab, wished the driver luck, and shut the door. Turning abruptly, he collided with a slender brunette.

"Oh shit, I'm sorry," Isabella said, looking up into deep pools of green.

* * *

**End Notes:**

**Lucy's Retired Surfer Bar is a real place, on a corner lot, you can google it. **

**My plan is to update every Tuesday, but please don't lynch my ass when (note the use of the inevitable, lol) that doesn't happen.**

**Omen inspirations: Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil (Movie)**

**American Gothic (Short run TV show)**

**Playlist**

_**House of the Rising Sun**_**- cover by Lauren O'Connell  
Alright people, tell me what you're thinking.**


	4. Days of Waste

**A/N: This is my disclaimer, and it's far too lazy to even bother infringing. Not mine. **

**Hola! Glad to see you back for more. **

**You can follow me on Twitter JanuarysFiction or FB: MissJanuary FanFiction**

**Kisses to my beta team: Lynzylee and Max!**

**I realize it's Wednesday ... and I said I'd post on Tuesdays, but in all fairness you were warned. So let's get on with it people. Catch ya at the bottom. **

**Chapter 3**

_Days of Waste_

The moment the front door closed behind her, Isabella began pulling off her clothes and dropping them like breadcrumbs behind her. She stood in her bathroom in Coca-Cola red boy shorts and a sheer black bra. She cupped her breast, hefted them, and then let them drop. "Meh," she said with a shrug. "Mary Alice got the tits. But this ass…" she smacked her behind "…thank you, Momma!"

The quiet laugh died in her throat. "Momma," she whispered. For a moment Bella was quiet, and then a sloppy smile stretched her lips. "You'd be proud, Mom. Well, maybe not so much of the delivery." She waved her hand in front of her own lady bits and giggled remembering the way Mary Alice had declared herself to Jasper earlier in the night. "But, yeah, Mary Alice told a boy she loved him. Not liked, _loved_. Skipped right past like. Quite a big thing for her, though I suspect the three tequilas she poured down her throat had something to do with it." She nodded her head, agreeing with her own speculation.

With both hands gripping the sink, her body swayed just a little as the beer she'd drank buzzed through her blood. Isabella looked up, meeting her own reflection. "I miss love," she admitted to the blurry-eyed girl in the mirror.

It'd been seven months since Kory-Rae. Kory was an audacious blonde with a dirty mouth and curves that could make grown men cry. She drew the attention of everyone in the room without so much as a word. Bella fell into her easily—fell for her desire and the way she wanted and wanted. Kory wanted every part of Bella, wanted to own her. And though the idea of being desired that much was appealing to Bella, and initially intoxicating, it wasn't what she needed.

Isabella had always been a one man, one woman kind of girl—as in one man _and_ one woman. Something Riley had not only accepted but loved about her. Kory-Rae simply tolerated it…until she didn't. Kory handed her an ultimatum: me and _only_ me, or nothing at all. Though it broke her heart, Isabella went with door number two, knowing full well that wasn't who she was, or ever would be.

Monogamy wasn't in her catalogue. She craved both the soft skin and delicate touch of a woman, and the hard planes and rough fingertips of a man. She'd tried more times than she could count to be with that _one_ person, but the need, the crave for the other, always crept back in, forcing her to make choices about who she was and how she was going to live her life.

Her relationship with Riley many moons ago hadn't ended quite so dramatically. His job moved him out of state, and Isabella hadn't been willing to follow. The two remained friends, chatting on-line from time to time. No hearts were broken. But after Kory-Rae, she'd come to the decision that trying to be something she wasn't, wasn't worth the ache. From that point on she was determined to only be with people that fully accepted her and understood that they could only have all of her if they were willing to give over half of her.

Bella pulled herself away from her thoughts and tucked Kory in the past. Closing her eyes for a moment, she saw green eyes, unruly hair, and a crooked smile.

"_Oh shit, sorry." Bella's eyes met with a handsome, if slightly brooding face. _

_He stood stock-still for a moment, lips parted. "No, no. Fault's all mine." He tipped his head to her._

_She turned away, then back again. "You work here? At Lucy's?" _

"_Yeah, on the occasion. You drink here?" His voice held a note of an accent. Irish maybe, Isabella had thought. _

"_On the occasion." She smiled up at him, hoping the booze hadn't fucked with her face yet. It was one thing to down a few and slur every third word, but when you _looked_ slurred, it was time to put the bottle down. _

_He cracked a smile and chuckled. _

_Yup, facial slur. Fuck, Bella thought, looking down at her red Docs. Bree just stood there, watching and waiting with her keys in her hand. _

"_You need a cab?" he asked, pointing out to the busy street._

"_Nope. DD." She pointed to Bree. _

_He nodded and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Have a good night, then." And with that, he and the doorman disappeared into the crowded bar. _

"_Fucking crap!" Bella marched towards Bree's car, Bree giggling behind her. "On the occasion," she mocked herself. "Fucking tool!"_

"_Smooth you were not, Isabella." Bree pointed the key fob at her car and the lights blinked. _

"_I really wasn't. What the happy fuck was that?"_

"_A missed opportunity."_

)*(

Remembering the cocky grin, the open button exposing his neck, the curve of his lips, and his jewel toned eyes, Isabella slipped her fingers beneath her panties, one hand still gripping the sink.

Her fingers worked quickly, months of frustration fueling them. She came with a loud moan, leaning over the sink, her legs shaking and her face flushed.

"Yeah … hot," she mumbled in a throaty voice. "He was most certainly _hot_."

)*(

Shutting the door with his foot, he unbuttoned his shirt as he walked. Passing by the maybe-gray ottoman, he grabbed the remote sitting on the arm and turned on the TV.

The bathroom light flickered above the mirror, washing the small room in an odd blue/green light. Masen shrugged out of his shirt and let it fall to the floor, pooling like black ink on the cracked tile. He turned on the shower and let the rest of his clothes hit the floor. Masen stepped under the hot but weak spray and let his eyes slip shut. Exhaling, he felt the smoke and the smell of the bar trickle down his body. His muscles bunched and relaxed under the meager stream of water. His arm burned and his mind pulled up the image of the small brunette. Her half-slurred, husky voice echoed in his ears, and he smiled.

The way she chewed on her lip, blushed, and kind of batted her eyelashes —which he was sure was completely unconsciously— made him chuckle.

And just as quick as his smile had spread, it vanished with the knowledge of what was to come.

)*(

_**10:27pm, September 1907~ Baker County Oregon **_

_A loud rumble tore through the city, shaking the ground beneath its citizens, but only one fell while another dissolved into the shadows, counting on the chaos of the scene to be his cover._

_The body of Sheriff Harvey Kimble Brown, a well-loved and respected pillar of the community was the sole victim of the bombing, the sole target. _

_They brought in dogs and private investigators from out of state, but not a single lead was ever stumbled upon. The case was never closed and no one was held accountable for the bombing or death of the beloved sheriff. _

_Edward knew they'd never close that book. No one would come for him. He'd learned all he knew from his father, Carlisle Cullen. _

"_Don't give 'em reason ta suspect ya, boy. Act shady, and they'll think yer shady," he would tell a young Edward. "An' cover yer tracks. Don't ever lead 'em home." _

_He'd breezed into Baker on charm and a well made suit, under a false name, Anthony Healy, supposedly looking to move his young wife to a sweet little city like theirs. The only bit of truth in all of that was the name. Anthony had been his middle name and Healy his mother's maiden name. _

_He spoke to the right people, asked the right questions. And no one would ever know about the back alley dealings their shiny sheriff conducted in the dark of night. _

_When Edward returned to Seattle later that week, his handsome father offered him congratulations and one of the few looks of pride he would ever bestow on his only son. _

_The first came the day he put a gun in the hands of his eleven-year-old son and taught him how to shoot. _

)*(

**March 13, 2014**

The nights flipped by quickly, like pages in a book, pages without any real event or consequence. Boring. A hundred and thirty one years of wandering in an ever evolving world could suck the joy and pleasure out of the human experience in a way Masen never considered.

Everyone wanted to be young and beautiful and live forever, but forever was torture. Technology changed and advanced in mind blowing ways every day, but people, they reminded the same. What they wore and how they spoke morphed throughout the years, but the brass roots of human behaviour had never really strayed, and that made the prospect of _forever_ utterly boring.

Masen's world was nothing but death and tedium.

Until she batted her big brown eyes at him. Then Masen's world became death, tedium, and a minor but growing obsession.

Every night at the bar Masen searched the faces in the crowd looking for the drunk-flushed, beautiful face of Isabella Swan, his story. She hadn't returned to Lucy's that week, and stalking —sorry, _Witnessing_— her outside her tattoo parlor every day, wasn't enough. He would watch from across the road as she greeted customers and bustled around the shop with a kind of contented look about her. Words would painfully scroll across his skin, adding to her story, bringing it closer to the end.

He was there to _Witness_, to gather her story and watch it unfold, but never to intervene, and as a personal rule: never get involved or give a shit in any way. Emotions build attachments, something he couldn't afford.

"Lost in a good dream?" a portly but kind faced man said, taking a seat in front of Masen.

"Something like that," he answered.

Laying a bill down on the bar, he said, "Whiskey sour. What's her name?"

Masen chuckled and shook his head. "Isabella. Makes a beautiful lush." He remembered the way she swayed on the sidewalk and the glazed look in her eyes. Booze and a warm Louisiana night made her face as pink as a rose petal.

"Isabella," the man repeated, "beautiful name."

Masen passed him a glass and watched the man bring it to his lips and tip it back. He pushed the image of her into a dark corner of his mind again and again, determined to keep his distance.

)*(

"Skinny jeans … best fucking thing ever," Masen said as his hands cupped the rounded curve of a pert ass.

An airy giggle bubbled out of the mouth of the bleach blonde he had pressed up against the cold metal of his Chevy.

Kymmy, she'd introduced herself as, spelling her name slow and clear. K-Y-M-M-Y. She'd swished and swooped her pinky finger in the air, making a Y shape. Something Masen found ridiculous.

Kymmy was vapid, under intelligent, with dark roots, glazed over blue eyes, and an impressive C-cup. Her lips tasted like strawberry and the way her leg slid against his, left little question as to just how far she was willing to go tonight.

Masen blindly reached for the truck's door, pulled it open, and stepped back. He gestured for her to climb in and then jumped in behind her.

It took her all of about four seconds to straddle him. The orange sequined top came off first and Masen took a moment to thank the Lord above for the careful work he'd put into her, particularly her chest. Her tits were perfectly round and her light pink nipples reacted beautifully to his mouth and his hands.

"Christ, I take it back," Masen panted, pulling at the jeans that clung to her like a second fucking skin.

She giggled her kinda sexy, kinda annoying giggle and finally wiggled free. With the jeans set aside, Kymmy went to work on his pants.

Masen let out a soft moan as she slid her hand over his length, and again when she rolled the condom down his shaft.

She bounced on him, whining and moaning loudly. She fucked like someone without a thought of the morning after. She rode him hard, like the consequence-free tourist she was. The thrill of a one night stand in a strange city with a strange man had her screaming like a porn star.

_That's … not attractive_, Masen thought, wishing she'd shut her fucking loud mouth and come already.

She came in dramatic fashion, seat gripped in one hand, head thrown back, chest heaving, and a string of "fucks" flew from her pink, plump lips. But it was all wrong. The shape of her body, the airy quality of her voice, even the faux blonde hair, was wrong.

He loathed his body for wanting anything other than the pretty girl seated on his lap. He poured his frustration into her, thrusting up in quick hard movements, gripping her hips with bruising force. He came with an angry grunt.

As he reached for his shirt, the tourist reached out and caressed the inky words on his shoulder and arm; she quirked her head curiously. Something about those tattoos looked … off. Different.

"I … Are they moving?" She looked up at Masen in amazement and let her finger trace the loops and dives of the words. "The words … I could swear …"

"Rye and Coke," Masen answered in a flat voice. "You're drunk." He handed her her top and refastened his jeans.

She gave the elegant lettering a long look and shook her head, deciding that Masen was right; it had to be the booze, and maybe a little sex stupor.

"Who's Isabella Swan?"

**End Notes:**

**A note on the flashback: That event is an actual unsolved bombing that occurred. You can google it.**

**Playlist:**

_**Angel**_** by Massive Attack**

_**Islands**_** by The xx.**


	5. Crescent City Connection

**A/N: I solemnly swear, that I do not own Twilight, I just like to play with it. No infringement intended.**

**So I'm on Twitter (JanuarysFiction), feel free to stalk me. My tumblr, same name (I think), is about 30% Rob, 30% Kristen, and then p0rn. Nerdy porn, wordy porn, actual porn. Feel free to add to it. Also, there's a FB page (MissJanuarys FanFiction). That's new, like brand new and it makes me nervous, so if you're gonna be mean then stay the fuck away, please and thanks.**

**Max has the red pen, Lynzeylee has the cute commentary. I love them both. Thanks ladies.**

**Chapter 4**

~_Crescent City Connection_~

**March 20, 2014**

Two tables over, she watched Mary Alice, pick up random books, flipping them in her hands. She smiled at the way Mary Alice read the jacket covers, silently mouthing the words, and chuckled when her nose wrinkled and the book was set aside.

The easy, warm, and intoxicating feeling of new words being written upon her skin fell over her, and she sighed deeply, loving the quick, but gentle rush it offered. Eighty-six years of Witnessing and she still pulled pleasure from the process.

"Find anything good?" Strong arms wrapped around Mary Alice's tiny frame.

"This…" she picked up a book with beautiful but blurry cover art "…is some depressing shit, Jazz. Why in the holy hell would anyone wanna to read a book like this, huh?" She dropped the book back down on the table and picked up another. "And _this _fluffy bullshit. Blah. 'Cause life is all sunshine and fuckin' kittens. Right."

The woman two tables over laughed softly to herself.

"So books aren't your thing," Jazz said.

"They bore me." Mary Alice shrugged. "What about you?"

Jazz tipped his head, gesturing to the small tote full of books.

Mary Alice looked down and then turned in his arms. "Nerd." She scooped the first three books off the top of the pile. Historical drama, art, and naked people. "Really, dude, a book full of T an' A?" She cocked her head.

"Look at this, Mar." Jasper flipped the book in question open. "The lighting … look at these black and whites," he gushed.

The woman stopped and turned fully toward the couple and glanced at the book, recognizing the work. She looked on as Mary Alice scanned the photos, taking it in. Bodies of every shape, age, and skin tone sat in various poses. Mary Alice's finger traced the curve of a hip, and she tilted her head.

"Jasper, these are beautiful." She closed the book and placed all three back in his tote.

"Wonderful skill he has for capturing the body in its best light." The woman stepped forward, looking toward the book.

"Great eye," Jasper agreed.

"I met him once at a gallery show. He's a quiet man. Not _I'm-an-artist-weird-quiet_, just quiet. Esme Evenson," she announced, holding her hand out to Mary Alice first, then Jasper. They introduced themselves politely.

"He hasn't done a gallery show in … like ten years," Jasper said, sizing the woman up. She couldn't be any more than thirty. Her eyes seemed so much older though.

"Yes, that sounds about right," Esme conceded. "Well, enjoy your books." She gave a cordial wave and made her way around them. Jasper tipped his brown plaid fedora at her as she passed by.

Esme practically buzzed from the warm high. Words dashed quickly down her arms, Jasper and Mary Alice's names intertwined in an inky script.

)*(

_January 1928_

_It didn't shock Esme one bit when Death found her; she'd forced its hand after all. Tragedy seemed to be stitched to Esme's shadow, never far behind. At the age of seven she watched, helpless and terrified, as her baby sister, Bernice succumbed to Scarlet Fever. Only three years later her lovely mother died giving birth to a baby that never took its first breath. Nine years passed in relative peace and then Death saw fit to steal away the only thing she had left, her father. _

_Having no one left, Esme turned to her family's neighbours and friends. They took her in, quickly marrying her off to their eldest son Charles. And for a brief moment in her life, Esme believed she'd pulled free from the tragedy and the pain, not knowing that what she'd walked into was so much worse. Charles Evenson was a monster with an angel's face, and when he went off to war, she prayed he wouldn't return. The night her prayer went unanswered and he came home, Esme Evenson turned her back on her faith. When she learned that she was carrying his child, she fled, refusing to let a child grow in a house built on fear and pain. _

_Jonathan Merrick Evenson was born January 17, 1928, died January 25. January 30, Esme Ann Evenson, daughter of Henry and Abigail Platt, jumped to her end. When she dove off the cliff into the raging water below, she thought she would simply sink to the bottom and drown. She didn't count on the water being so … hard. The water felt like marble—solid and cold. And when her body could no longer fight, a strange sight unfolded in front of her. A man with dark hair, wearing a dark suit, appeared only feet from her. His clothes were perfectly unaffected by the cold water that swirled and swooshed around them. _

_He held out his hand and said, "You've seen enough hurt, girl."_

)*(

Tossing her keys on the table by the front door, Mary Alice looked up the staircase that led to both her and Isabella's room. Thick baselines thumped off the walls and rattled down the hall, catching in the stairwell. She shook her head and plunked her purse down on the table, smiling.

"She's either painting or masturbating," she said, pointing up to the second floor as Jasper closed the door behind them.

"Maybe she's got company," Jasper offered with a shrug.

She kicked her kitten heels off and pranced down the carpeted hallway to the kitchen in her bare feet. "Nope. She would have texted."

Jasper lifted his bag of books to the countertop then stopped to pick up the tiny cat winding its way around his legs. She was black with orange blotches all over her, as if someone had flicked a paint brush at her. He brought her tiny face to his, smiling when she reached out her puffy little paw and touched his cheek. She let out a sort of pitiful meow and dropped her paw.

"What's up, Syn?" he asked, blowing in her face and laughing at the way she shook her head.

Syndal was Isabella's cat. She never took much interest, like most cats, in people—except Jasper. And, oddly, the mailman. Every afternoon, like clockwork, Syn would perch her tiny body on the window nearest the mailbox and meow like the annoying little fucker Mary Alice thought she was.

"She probably wants into Bell's room." Mary opened the fridge and grabbed two beers, one for her and the other for Jasper. She traded Jazz a bottle for the cat. "Come on, ya poor pussy, let's get ya back to Mama."

When she reached the top of the stairs, she hooked a right—Jazz went left— and knocked the bottle's bottom against the door in front of her. Syndal squirmed in her arms, and Mary Alice huffed. The music quieted and the door opened. A cloud of grayish smoke wafted through the open space and her sister stood, wearing an old white wifebeater covered in paint and equally smeared gray shorts.

"Glad it was option one," Mary Alice mumbled to herself. "Cat." She thrust the furry thing forward, and Syn leaped to the ground and made a quick dart down the stairs.

Isabella laughed and stretched out her hand, offering her sister a drag off her joint.

"Yup, fuck you too, Syn!" she called after the cat. "And don't mind if I do." She inhaled deeply and coughed, like always, and handed it back to Isabella.

"Jazz here?"

"Yeah, hidin' just in case it was option two."

"What?" Isabella's nose crunched up and she cocked her head.

"The loud music," she said, waving her hand around at nothing. "You were either painting—"

"Or getting off," Isabella finished. "Sadly, just painting. Wanna have a look?" She stepped aside and let Mary Alice into the room.

A large canvass lay on the floor and dark colours dominated the scene. A man in a dark suit, seemingly stretched just slightly beyond the normal portions stood dead centre. Everything that surrounded him was blurry, as if the world around him were out of focus.

"Can't even draw stickmen." Mary Alice shook her head, awed by her sister's talent. She took another long hit, pulling it deep into her lungs when Isabella handed it back to her. She kissed her sister's face and left the room, leaving the joint behind. "Turn the music back on," she called over her shoulder.

In her room, she found Jazz lounging on her bed, shirt off, the TV remote in his hand, and his sex-hat—Mary Alice's term for his brown fedora—on the bedside table. She kicked the door shut and walked out of her red peddle-pushers, leaving her in a white eyelet tank top and black lace underwear. Knees bent, back against the head board, she sat. She twisted the lid off the beer, tossed it to the side of the bed, and let the cold amber liquid slide down her throat. She knew she was being watched. She could always feel his eyes on her; roaming her skin, searching her face. She peeked out of the corner of her eyes, and sure enough, Jasper was staring at her. She smiled around the bottle.

"You might be the sexiest thing I've ever seen, Miss Mary," Jasper said, his voice dripping slow like warm honey.

She put the bottle down and stretched her legs out in front of her. Looking nowhere but the TV, she said, "Prove it."

The corner of Jasper's mouth hitched and took the cold bottle in his hand and skimmed it up her bare thigh. Goosebumps sprouted and she shivered. Slowly, he tipped the bottle, the mouth of it hovering inches from her lace panties. As the cold drink tinkled down and pooled between her closed thighs, she let out a hushed curse that sounded a lot like begging.

Reaching back, he placed the bottle on the nightstand and returned his attention to Mary Alice. His head dipped down to her thighs and his tongue poked out to lick the beer. She moaned and squirmed a little, and he loved the sound of it. He pushed her legs open and tucked his head between them, taking a long lap at the booze soaked lace. Her hips jumped and he flattened a hand against the lower part of her stomach.

Her hands gripped his dirty blond locks and a near silent, _yes_ fell from her lips. He stayed there, face to her swelling clit, until she shook. He stood quickly and stripped off his jeans and boxer briefs, leaving them pooled on the floor. He climbed back on the bed, hovering over Mary Alice. He pushed an arm under her tiny frame and pulled her further down the bed. Without a word, he moved her panties to the side and pushed inside her. They groaned at the feel of warmth and fullness, and wet, sticky heat.

His fingers tickled the petals that covered her rib cage, and she smiled. Grabbing her knee, he pushed it toward her chest and drove deeper into her, loving the way her body welcomed him and pulled him in. He braced his hand on the head board and moved slow, each thrust rocking her body forward.

Small, warm hands rested in the centre of his chest and after a moment gave a gentle push. "As good as this feels, my knickers are riding up my ass," Mary Alice said with some amusement.

Jazz chuckled and rolled off her, grunting at the feel as he slid out.

She dug her thumbs into the waistband, peeled the offending black lace from her body, and unceremoniously chucked them clear across the room. Without missing a beat, she grabbed his cock and straddled him, lowering herself onto him in one quick, almost violent movement. "Fuck," she cried. Stilling herself for just another moment, she pulled the white top off and let it drop to the bed beside her.

She rode him hard and wasn't quiet about it. Now that she had him, really had him, she'd never again hide how she felt.

)*(

"There's something in every fucking painting," Mary Alice said just as absently as she ran her fingers from Jasper's navel to mid-ab.

"Hmm?" Jasper tipped his head down to look at the raven haired woman.

"Bell's paintings. All of them have something of my parents in them." She lifted her head up and looked Jazz in the eye. "The one she's working now … the bridge is in the background."

Jasper didn't need her to explain the significance of the bridge, he knew.

"It's how she deals, how she works it out, Mar. You push people away, keep them from seeing you, Isabella paints what she remembers."

"I don't push—"

"You do, and that's okay. It's how _you_ deal."

Her face fell and she let out a deep, thoughtful sigh. "I don't mean to," she whispered against his naked chest.

"I know, kitten. I put up with your shit 'cause the head is _amazing_!"

She swatted at him and rolled to her side, a light, happy grin pulling at her lips. "Good night, Jasper Daniel." She popped her butt out and let him tuck himself to her side.

"That's J.D. Whitlock to you, ma'am," he said, exaggerating his lazy accent.

Her body gave a slight tremble, and not the good kind. "Oh God, that's skeevie. Don't ever say that again,"

Down the hall the music stopped and Isabella pulled off her paint covered clothes. Peeking down the darkened hallway, she risked the naked jaunt across the hall to her own room. She washed her hands, scrubbing the drying paint away, washed her face, and brushed her teeth. As she lie in bed, she pictured the Crescent City Connection Bridge, rain falling, and a man in black moving between the heavy raindrops.

**End notes:**

**Story Rec****: **_**Yes**_** by **_**GeekChic12 **_**. It's a sweet story about a beautiful boy, a patient girl and what grows between them. It's on both FFN and Fiction Pad, read it. **

**Playlist: **

**Agent Ribbons~ **_**I'm Alright **_

**Dido ~ **_**Honestly, OK**_

_**Thanks for reading!**_

_**~Jen**_


	6. Beginnings

**A/N: I got words, but they're not her words, only SM owns those. No infringement intended. **

**Hi! *waves* Welcome back.**

**As always thanks to Max and Lynz for their help with this fuckery. Mistakes are mine. **

**Chapter 5**

_~Beginnings~_

**April 6, 2014**

"A repeat offender," the bouncer said, holding the door for Isabella.

She looked up at the bronze-skinned man. "What?" Her chocolate eyes met equally dark orbs.

"I've seen you here before." He watched a couple leave hand in hand.

"Oh … yeah." Isabella nodded. Surreptitiously, she hoped the door man's fuck-hot co-worker was here, but she didn't hang her hopes on that.

Her brown eyes searched the bar while some kick-ass 90s song she couldn't remember the name of piped through the sound system. She tousled her hair, feeling the way it had begun to curl with the heat of the spring air. She saw Emmett wave her over to the booth he shared with Rosie, Mike, and Jess.

After five visits to the shop, six lengthy conversations that consisted mostly of him begging, and one bouquet of crazy daisies, Rosie finally agreed to a date with Emmett. The one condition was that it be in a group; Emmett happily agreed to those terms.

Isabella kissed Rosie's head as she squished into the booth next to Jess, who gave her bare leg a quick squeeze. She didn't often wear skirts, but when she did they were leather. Led Zepplin T-shirt, pink and blue plaid button-down, cherry Docs, and her favourite mini skirt, Isabella felt good in her skin tonight. Colour peeked out anywhere her pale skin was exposed.

Jess eyed her, her teeth scrapping across her bottom lip. "Drink?" she said, swirling her own glass.

"Yes," Isabella said, waving the waitress over. A nice glowy buzz was her aim for the night, not stupid drunk, so she stuck with beer; she could only tolerate so many of those.

With little more than a nod in her direction, Mike continued his story. "Shoulda seen Bree's pretty little face," he said with a snicker. "Dude pulled down his pants, and that was it, Bree was fuckin' outta there. Her eyes were all big and shell-shocked. Poor thing might never recover."

"So Bree's twenty-one?" Em asked the table.

Heads nodded and a "_yup_" popped out of Rosie.

"And she doesn't drink, doesn't smoke, doesn't swear … and is likely a virgin?" he surmised. More head nods. "At _twenty-one_?" He sounded utterly incredulous.

"She's likely at home worryin' over the consequence that shit had on her soul," Isabella said. "But in fairness that guy's prick was hideous." She snorted and picked up her drink.

"Who booked that fuckin' appointment anyway?" Jess asked. Mike raised his hand timidly, and Jess turned to stare down her husband. "Tell me you didn't know what he wanted? _Where_ he wanted it?"

"He might've mentioned it." Mock guilt and way too much amusement lit his face.

Smacking his upper arm hard, Jess said, "You mighta traumatized that poor girl for life. You call her right now, Michael Ellis, and say you're sorry!"

"Oh shit, son. You got middle named," Em said and chuckled, slapping the table top with one large mitt, the other squeezing Rosie's knee.

"She'll be fine." Mike didn't sound as sure as he was putting off.

"Michael, I'll call your mama." The threat rolled off Jess's tongue and landed heavy on Mike's balls.

He sagged a little in his seat and placed his drink back down on the table. "You wouldn't." His challenge was weak and everyone knew it.

She cocked her head, looking for all the world like the smuggest bitch in town.

He spared another second of contemplation then reached into his pocket for his phone, cursing his beautiful wife. The table burst out in laughter, and Jess sat back, pleased with herself.

Isabella smiled at the easy posture Rosie had settled into. She looked genuinely happy to be sitting next Emmett, and more importantly, comfortable. Again she scanned the bar, looking for green eyes. Behind the bar, stood a man in head to toe black. She couldn't see his face, but knew damned well it was him.

)*(

Masen mixed this with that and held the resulting martini out to a woman, nodding as she thanked and paid him, dismissing the way her blue eyes climbed his body. He wanted nothing to do with her, or the redhead she offered as part of the deal. He rolled his eyes and turned away from her, leaving her gap-mouthed and huffing.

He knew she was here; he saw her walk through the door. It made him a little surly—equal parts pissed and excited. And the excited part just pissed him off more.

"Abita amber," a saucy voice said, catching his attention.

Masen spun to address the customer. His fists clenched and his heart pumped hard. Standing at the bar was the girl with the muddy brown eyes and her name tattooed on his shoulder.

"Sure," Masen said curtly.

_Did he just give me stink eye?_ Isabella thought, her brow furrowing a little at the thought. Not one to pussy foot around, she asked, and the silence he offered said it all.

A beat later, Masen turned and his face was a tad softer, a contrite little smile playing on his lips. He handed her a beer and an apology. "Excuse my inner asshole. He gets out more often than I'd like."

Isabella took the beer and nodded politely. "Rough day?"

"Rough life, but that's not how this …" he motioned between them "… works. You're supposed to unload your worries on me. Part of the job description." He placed his elbows on the bar top and leaned forward, ready to take on her woes.

Isabella put her beer down and stepped closer. "Isabella." She introduced herself, pitching her hand out in a friendly gesture.

He took her delicate hand and shook it. "Masen."

"So you want my sad stories, huh?"

"Happy. I get enough tragedy," he replied, thinking about how true and unfortunate that was.

"Happy. Well … see those two right there?" She turned her head over her shoulder and pointed in the general direction of her table.

"The voluminous blonde knock-out or the pretty brunette?"

"Knock-out," Isabella qualified. Masen nodded. "They're on their first date. I set them up." She looked quite pleased with herself, smiling smugly.

"To beautiful beginnings then."

"To beautiful beginnings." She smiled and tipped the bottle back, taking a healthy swig. "So you're new," she blurted out.

Masen chuckled, bobbing his head.

"Sorry, just meant that I'd never seen you here before … before the last week … or two?" Her eyes rolled to the side, as if she were trying to pull the correct information from some secret place in her brain. "Yeah, then," she finally murmured.

"Yeah, your face was a little more—"

"Drunk," she interrupted.

"I was going to say flushed."

"You're too kind, Masen." The taste of his name was sweet. She wondered what it would sound like screamed and half breathless.

"I'm not."

His words seemed so honest and yet layered with some deep hurt she didn't understand; so much loaded into two little words. Isabella cocked her head and gave Masen a good long look.

"You're trying though. Have a good night, Masen," she said, letting her hand fall away from the bar as she slowly turned her back and walked away.

Masen smiled, looking down at the business card she'd left behind. Her cell phone number and name were written in clear, strong black ink on the back. The girl had balls. Most women were overly confident in their pursuit. They would lean in too close, find any reason at all to touch him, throw sexual innuendo around like confetti, and hand him room keys like they were handing over the keys to fucking Buckingham palace. Isabella was quiet about it, and he respected that.

)*(

"The cat was a spiteful purchase," Isabella admitted. "Not really a fan of the grumpy little fucker, to be honest."

Everyone chuckled.

"Why'dya get her?" Rosie asked, melting words together.

"Mary Alice scratched my car, so I got somethin' that would scratch back."

They all gasped at the mention of the injury to Isabella's green car. They all knew good and well how she felt about that car.

"Oh, right. I remember," Rosie said, not at all oblivious to the way Emmett had shuffled closer, his thigh touching hers. "Bitch did it on purpose. Something about Bells ruining her life, blah, blah, blah."

"She was drunk off her tiny ass and blamed me for her break up with Matt. Mighta told her to suck an egg —or dick. Whatever. Then she keyed my car. So I bought a cat the next day. She hates cats. Neat how things find a way of working themselves out, eh?" Isabella smiled and shrugged innocently, earning a round of laughter.

Jess looked sideways at Isabella, ran her fingertips up Isabella's thigh, and left it tucked neatly between her legs, leaving no question as to what was running through Jess's head. She'd been dropping tiny hints all night, which, by and large went unnoticed by the rest of people at the table. Not that either would have cared. No one here would judge them.

Since her chat with the bartender, Masen, Isabella's head been bobbing in and out of the gutter, a place her mind frequently roamed to lately, and she'd readily admit to feeling a little … frisky. She leaned to her side and whispered, "Alley," then got up and walked out the side door of the bar.

Lucy's Bar sat on a corner lot, and the building next door created a narrow alley that backed onto the outdoor patio. The patio wasn't visible from the alleyway, but the Girod St. traffic was. It was dark and that offered just enough concealment for Isabella to be comfortable.

_Besides_, she thought, _sex in alleyways is 'bout as common as Sundays around her_.

She leaned against the brick wall and watched as Jess stepped into the night, followed by her husband.

_Two for one_, she thought, and a wave of heat flooded her veins.

)*(

Masen's eyes trailed Isabella out the side door, and then grew wide when her very female, very beautiful friend stood to follow. He cocked his head when the man sitting next to her pushed his way out of the booth as well.

Gathering the trash from behind the bar and then the kitchen, he let Jake know he'd be right back, gesturing to the back door. Masen quickly hurled the two bags of garbage into giant bin and stealthy crept around the side of the building to where he'd seen Isabella and her friends go. He assumed they'd ducked out to spark up, but that wasn't the case.

Isabella's shoulders were pressed to the wall, her hips set away from it. Her hands were anchored to the hips of the pretty friend. That friend had her tongue in Isabella's mouth. Masen's eyebrows shot up.

"Really?" he whispered to no one.

Standing opposite the girls stood a tall, blond he presumed was the husband of the woman now standing between Isabella's legs. Like Isabella, they were covered in ink. The woman much less, but it was still visible.

He watched fingers disappear beneath Isabella's black skirt, and a blast of jealously hit him. Lust, sure that was reasonable, she was stunning, but jealously wasn't … acceptable. Just as he was about to turn and head back into the bar, Isabella pushed away from the wall and spun, trapping her friend against the brick. She reached her hand back, the blond took it, and she pulled him close.

Jealously rolled into rage. Masen's jaw ticked and his hands balled into fists, but he stayed right where he was, watching.

His hands moved around to cup Isabella's breasts as her fingers undid the button and unzipped her friend's jeans. Her hand slipped beneath the fabric and it was clear, by the way her back arched, when she pushed inside.

The back of Isabella's skirt shimmed up, her free hand slammed against the wall, bracing herself. The tattooed blond positioned himself behind her and pulled himself free of his dark jeans. Quickly, he rolled on a condom, stuffing the wrapper into his back pocket. The tall blond had to bend his knees a little to get the angle just right, and then he slipped inside Isabella.

Masen heard the moans from where he stood. He hated wanting to be the one pulling those sounds from her. The last ninety-nine years of his life had been a punishment, but this by far was the cruelest thing he'd been subjected to yet and he groaned in anger.

Isabella's head jerked to the side and her eyes landed on him. For the quickest second, she looked nervous, and when that dissolved, a suggestive smirk graced her face, and she winked at him.

Fucking winked.

**End Notes:**

**So there's that … Leave your thoughts in the box, and I'll catch ya next chapter. PS. I ALWAYS reply, unless you're an asshole. Just sayin'.**

**Playlist:**

_**Too Close**_** –Alex Clare**

_**Do I Wanna Know?**_** ~ The Arctic Monkeys**

_**Oh My God**_** ~ Pink!**

_**Awake ~**_** Black Rebel Motorcycle Club**


	7. Gypsy

**A/N: Here's my lazy ass disclaimer: Not mine. **

**As always, love to my beta team: Lynzeylee and Maxipoo1024. **

**So our little southern Bell slipped Masen her digits ... let's see how this plays out.**

**Chapter 6**

_~Gypsy~_

**April 8, 2014**

He flipped the card in his hand, studied Isabella's handwriting, then slapped it down on his dresser and walked away. His hands clenched in tight, frustrated fists. With a quick tug, he pulled the black Beastie Boys T-shirt over his head and threw it to the floor. He stepped out of his jeans and turned on the hot water. He waited—not so patiently—for the water to warm up.

"Fucking pipes," he cursed, staring at the showerhead, as if his glare alone could correct the temperature. He side-eyed the dresser where he left the card, ran his tongue over his teeth, and hissed in irritation as he grew hard. Again.

Under the lukewarm spray, a slide show began behind his tightly closed eyes: Isabella with her head thrown back, laughing; Isabella's soft smile as she stood at the bar and the wicked wink she offered him in the alley; her body pressed between two others—to one she offered pleasure, from the other, she took it.

Masen took his dick in his hand and worked it without a hint of mercy until he came, his forehead pressed against the cracked, grimy shower wall. He didn't make a sound, just breathed out and let his shoulders relax. After he dried off, letting the damp towel crumple to the floor where he stood, he waltzed over to his dresser and pulled out a fresh pair of boxer briefs and yanked them on.

_You're going to regret this_, he thought, snatching the small business card off the dusty surface of the dresser. He rooted through the jeans he'd left on the bathroom floor and pulled his cell phone out. It was kind of an antiquated thing that flipped open. It was a reminder of Masen's solitary existence. It never rang and was rarely used but for the odd pizza delivery.

His eyes slid back and forth between the tiny card that taunted him and the sad excuse for a phone. He growled at both then sucked in a deep breath and dialled her number.

It rang twice, three times, and on the fourth he was ready to snap the damn thing shut and do his best to avoid the beautiful story he'd been sent to Witness.

Once, in 1944, he tried to refuse Witnessing the story of a seven year old boy. He walked away, fled the city as fast as he could. It didn't go well. The pain became utterly intolerable, and Masen had been forced to return and finish the story handed to him. Never again did he turn his back on a Witnessing.

"Hello?" Isabella's voice piped through the tiny speaker, shocking Masen.

He brought his face back to the phone. "Hello?" he said, unsure.

"Umm … hi?"

"Masen," he offered.

It was silent for a short moment and then, "Masen … hot bartender at Lucy's, _Masen_?"

"That'd be the one."

"Didn't think you'd call," she said, a hint of challenge in her voice.

"Why? Because I saw you get fucked in an alley." He smiled to himself.

"Yeah. That."

Masen made an unimpressed sound and shrugged his shoulders. "Whatever does it for you. And apparently that's men … and women." The smirk on his face grew.

"Why are you calling, Masen?" She paused, but not long enough for him to answer. "After the eyeful you got the other night, either you think I'm an easy fuck, or you're intrigued."

He answered without hesitation. "Intrigued. By _you,_ not your proclivities. People aren't as fuckin' odd as they think they are." A hundred and thirty years taught him as much. Humans and their desires, it was all old hat.

"So … a drink then?" Isabella asked.

"Where?"

"There's a hole-in-the-wall. Redd's on Maple Street. I'm about ten minutes from there." He heard shuffling in the background, as if she were searching through a drawer. "You know it?"

"No, but I can find it." Moving the sweating bottle of beer, he opened the outdated phonebook that served as his coaster and quickly looked it up, mapping it out.

"Right. See ya then."

Isabella hung up and Masen pulled on a clean pair of jeans and a reasonably clean T-shirt that fit him like a well-worn, old glove. He thought for a second he'd skip the second shirt because it was so damned steamy outside, but the writhing, blacker than pitch ink creeping down his arm made that a tad difficult. So, grudgingly, he tucked himself into a light gray and blue plaid button up.

Sliding his wallet and room key into his pocket, he shut the door behind him.

**)*(**

"Where ya headin' off to?" Mary Alice asked, reaching into the dishwasher, lemon scented steam rolling over her face.

"Nowhere if I can't find my fuckin' keys."

"Next to the fridge." She tipped her head to the hand-blown glass bowl on the countertop. "Lose your head if it weren't sewn on."

Isabella reached into the bowl and plucked out her keys. "Swear they make a game out of hiding on me." She spoke to the keys before shoving them in her pocket and turning back toward the front of the house.

"Not gonna tell me, eh?"

"Redd's for a beer, nosey bitch," she called over her shoulder, blowing her sister a kiss. She bent for a moment, rubbing Syndal's tiny head. "Be nice to Auntie Mar, she's fixin' to stew your furry ass for that stunt you pulled yesterday." Secretly, she was a little giddy about the peep-toe Syndal had snacked on. _Retribution_, she thought, remembering the twelve-hundred dollar bill for Mary Alice's hissy fit.

She slipped out of the air conditioned house and into damp heat. The night air was warm, almost too warm, and wrapped around her as she walked the ten minutes to Redd's bar. She pulled the door open and looked around.

_OK, not a dive, per say, more a cozy, rustic hole. _

Isabella took a seat at a small booth facing the door and ordered a beer.

_I'm having a drink with a bartender I met at bar a few days ago … that watched me take part in a three-way …in an alley. Par for a Sunday night_.

Her mind wandered while she waited, and her brain began to sketch and draw. Colours layered together, shapes took form, and soon enough the picture of an owl came together. Not the cute, wide-eyed owls that were popping up all over the place, but a large, menacing bird of prey. She pictured it perched on a fallen tree, its eyes focused on something far away. The steadfast stare made her skin prickle, and she shook he head, wiping the image away like the quick shake of an Etch-a-Sketch. When she looked up, Masen was standing at the booth looking down at her.

She tipped her chin and glanced at the seat across from her, willing him to sit.

"I shouldn't be here," Masen said. No, "_Hi, how's it going" _or anything that came close to sounding like a greeting.

"But you're intrigued," Isabella asked, staring him down.

"I am." He studied her face, and slowly his eyes dropped, skating down her shoulders and finally landing on Isabella's slight hands.

"Why?" she asked.

"Maybe it's the colour on your skin, maybe the way you walk like you couldn't give a fuck." His eyes shot up and connected with her eyes. "Maybe it's those brown fucking pools that I feel like I'm sinking in."

She pressed her thighs together and bit her bottom lip.

"Maybe I just want, just once, to be next to something beautiful and not feel like I'm the reason it's breaking."

The words threw her, but the tone was so pitiful that she couldn't help reaching out across the table to him. "_Breaking_? I … Who's broken?" she asked.

He looked around the room. "Everyone in some small way … a little more every day." He shook his head and looked down at his right arm. "But that's my issue."

Something about what he said smacked of secrets to Isabella, but she wasn't about to go digging in his dirty laundry.

"Are you always this depressing?" She flicked his hand and smiled.

Masen chuckled and shook his head. A crooked smile turned his cherry red lips up. "You always get it on in dark alleys?"

Isabella sat back with an easy sigh and ran her tongue over her top lip. "No. That was a first. The alley … not the three-way."

"Exhibitionist?" he purred, his eyes crackling with mischief.

"Sometimes. Voyeur?" she fired back in a flirty tone.

He shook his head slightly. "A first."

"Watching or the three-way?"

"Watching. Unless porn counts. Does it count?"

Isabella laughed and it was a throaty, smooth laugh that made Masen's stomach clench. Masen reached out and snagged Isabella's beer, taking a swig. "Not bad," he said, tipping it toward the waitress, indicating he'd like one, and then placing it back in front of her. "You seemed, and correct me if I'm wrong, _comfortable_ with them."

Isabella smiled slyly. She'd known Jess since high school, meeting in grade eleven when Jess was forced to switch schools mid-year. She was a fighter back then, not a lover—a scrappy, skinny little thing who favoured fists over words. Apparently school administrators frowned on that kind of behaviour and Jess was expelled.

Isabella took to her immediately, seeing a kind girl buried under issues too heavy for her slim shoulders. Jessica's mother up and left one morning; no note, no explanation, she just walked out the door, bags in hand, and never looked back.

"Polite way of asking if we've fucked before." She cocked her head and bit her lip. She'd been joining them for years. It was an every-now-and-again kind of thing.

"Mike and Jess met in college and married about three years ago. They've got their kinks. Other woman … a little breath play occasionally." She shrugged. She was in no position to judge others and their secret penchants. "I stood in their wedding. Can you picture this in bright blue chiffon?" she said, waving a hand over her body.

"I'm sure you managed," Masen said, peppering his voice with just a hint of sarcasm.

"Your accent," she said. "You're not from here, at least not originally."

"Castlebar, Ireland. I moved to Seattle when I was fourteen," he said, omitting the fact that it was the Seattle the world knew in the 1800s. "But I've moved around a lot."

"Army brat?"

"Nah. More like a gypsy. Never in one place too long." Out of necessity, not some wanderlust that pulled at his soul, but he left that out of the narrative. He would have much rather settled down. He wanted the roots, not the wings, but that wasn't his fate, and it surely wasn't his fucking call.

Isabella tipped her head, curious about the beautiful stranger across from her. "To see the world? Or to see how much distance you could put between you and your family?" It seemed to her that people like Masen, that never stuck around, either had an itch inside them that made them prone to wandering or they were running.

For a moment Masen was quiet. "My family's gone. My parents died a long time ago." Which was the truth. A bullet took his father and Consumption took his mother.

Isabella's face fell at his words. "I was twelve when my parents died. Freak car accident on a rainy night," she explained. "My sister and I were at slumber party that my mom didn't even want us to go to because we'd been dicks that day. My father won that argument, luckily."

Masen knew luck had zero to do with Mary Alice and Isabella not being in that car. It wasn't their time. Their stories had not yet begun, simple as that. Luck was a foolish notation created by humans to explain away things like this. It wasn't luck when a tornado came down on the neighbour's house, but left the next standing. It wasn't luck when someone won the jackpot at the casino. It was all part of a story that was written for them years before they were born. Fate, not luck, kept the Swan girls safe that night. And fate sent the car careening into the guard rail.

For an hour they lobbed questions back and forth, casual type conversation. His borderline cocky disposition was sexy and the secrets she knew were simmering right under the surface added to the mystery of him. He was the classic brooding male. A flash of anger or resentment would peek through for just the slightest moment and leave her wondering why. What happened to build such dynamic person?

"So the ink?" Masen asked, reaching for her hand and pulling it across the table. "I've found, and correct me if I'm wrong, that there are three types of tattoo-ees. The follower—the person that does it to follow a trend; the fucking posers of the tattoo world."

Isabella nodded, watching as his thumb swept back and forth over the tattoo on her wrist.

"Then there's the artist—the person who sees tattooing as a form of art and their body a canvass. Last, there's the storyteller—the person that uses tattoos as a means of storytelling. The ink kind of represents a moment in their life that they feel needs commemorating. The artist and the story often blend, though."

"That about covers it, yeah." Her eyes remained fixed on her wrist and his warm, rough thumb.

"You're obviously not the trendy sorority house chick with a tiny butterfly on her hip. What about this one?" he asked, his thumb gently tapping her inner wrist.

"That was my first. My name sake, obviously." She stared as he traced the thin lines of the white inked swan.

"No story there, just a name?" Masen watched her watch him, certain she was unaware of the light pink flush that had begun to creep over her face and chest.

She took a deep breath and slowly brought her eyes back to his face. "Name aside, I was always awkward, long limbs and no grace. I guess I just really indentified with that ugly little duckling."

"Past tense, _identified_. You don't anymore?"

"No. I grew up and left awkward in the playground. Still have shit for grace, though." She laughed at herself, blushing a little deeper. She decided to move the spotlight. "First time watching, but not the threesome." His head tilt told her he wasn't following. "Earlier you said the alley was the first time you'd watched anyone have sex." Her voice dropped.

"Yeah …?"

"But not the threesome," she said again, grinning like the cat that got the canary.

Masen laughed and Isabella took notice that his fingers hadn't stopped touching her skin.

"No. I was younger … there was booze, women, and coke, if I'm remembering correctly." He omitted the part about it being the late 1970s when hair was big, music questionable, and the drug of the moment was cocaine. "I don't remember much," not a lie, "just these big, beautiful boobs bouncing in my face." He held his hands out in front of his chest, as if cupping said boobs.

"A tit man. Figures." Isabella smirked and shook her head.

"No, no. Really," he defended. "It's not the tits, though, don't get me wrong, lots of love there. Couldn't give a shit if it's an A cup or an F. It's the package as a whole. The smooth skin, the sway and curve of a hip, the underside of a breast, regardless of size or shape. It's just … women."

His eye line dropped to her chest, and rather than feel exposed or objectified by his gaze, she felt … worshiped. Like he was openly taking it all in, no shame whatsoever in the way his eyes devoured her colourful skin, the hint of cleavage, or the swoop of her long neck.

"You're oh so _very_ straight," she said, watching his eyes move over her again.

"Guilty. And you're not."

"Nope. Does that bother you?" A hint of self-consciousness seeped into her voice.

"No. We are who we are. It's when people try to change themselves that things get fucked up."

Isabella smiled at him.

"They're gonna kick us out soon. Walk you to your car?" Masen offered.

"I walked." Isabella left a generous tip at the table and stood.

"I'll drive you home then." Masen stood.

"It's only a few blocks," she began to protest.

"I wasn't asking, Isabella. It's three in the fucking morning. I'm driving you." An edge to his voice cut off the I'm-a-big-girl-rant she was about to unleash on him, and she simply nodded and turned toward the door. Masen's hand found the small of her back and lead her forward. "Good," he said when she didn't fight him.

"This is yours?" Isabella asked, her tiny hand gliding along the side of the truck. It looked like a caress.

"Yes, ma'am."

Isabella spun on her heels and leveled him with a glare that would melt a snowball. "Call me that again, dude, and I'll tattoo pink ribbons and fluffy kittens all over your ass. I'm twenty-eight, not eighty-seven, fucker."

Laughing, he held open the truck door. "You got it, Miss Daisy." He shut the door as she faced the window, tongue out and mild finger up.

_I shouldn't be here_, he thought, pulling open the driver's door. But he'd be a goddamned lair if he denied the pull he felt between them. He hated it, wanted it go away, even so much as resented that beautiful girl for what she was doing to him, but he couldn't, wouldn't deny it.

"Which way?" he asked, fastening his seatbelt and looking to the brown-eyed girl next to him.

**End Notes: So they've met, officially. Thoughts, feelings, theories? Give 'em to me.**

**Thanks for reading :)**

**O/S Recs:**

_**Lack of 'O'**_** by Discordia81 - **_**Edward overhears Bella complaining about her lack of 'O' at a party and he offers to help. Too bad Bella's never thought of him as being anything but her geeky lab partner**__**.**_

_**Hey You**_** by SydneyAlice ~ **_**Tear jerker alert, but so very much worth the read.**_

**Playlist:**

**Take my Hand ~ Dido**

**Feel Like Falling ~ Digital Daggers**


	8. Wistful Sighs

**A/N: Boring, lazy disclaimer: Not mine. **

**This chapter was a bitch to chase down, so hopefully you all enjoy it. Catch ya at the bottom, lovelies.**

**Love and sloppy kisses to my beta team/cheerleading squad: Maxipoo1024 and Lynzylee.**

**Chapter 7**

_~Wistful Sighs~_

The four minute ride home had been heavy with tension. Isabella sat still and silent, listening to the BlackCrowes croon "No Speak, No Slave." The rumble of the truck's engine sent a comfortable vibration through her body. She sneaked a peek at Masen, side-eying him. Long fingers wrapped tightly around the vinyl steering wheel and the scruff did little to disguise his clenched jaw. Fleetingly, she wondered what it would feel like to run her tongue along that jaw.

But she quickly recognized the annoyance pluming off him like smoke from a stack, and it made it hard to breathe. If it wasn't for his insistence, she would have thought he didn't want her in his truck. Or anywhere _near_ him. She brought her eyes back to the road in front of her, pointing to the house on the left side of the street as it approached.

Masen pulled into the driveway of the beautiful brick house. Though it was dark and only the headlights lit the exterior, he could tell the house was colourfully decorated. Corals mixed with teal details and creams softened the structure. He pushed the gear shift into park and dropped his hands to his lap, jaw ticking, teeth grinding. He felt her eyes on him and didn't doubt for a hot fucking minute that the sharp-tongued, sharp-witted brunette had caught wind of the shift in his demeanor and his peevish mood. He didn't want to leave her feeling as though she were the cause, even if she was—by no fault of her own.

Turning to him fully, Isabella's lusty little thought danced right out the window, and she was suddenly left wondering why she was sitting next to someone who, quite fucking obviously, did not want to be anywhere near her. "O-okay," she whispered, confused and disappointed.

Without a word, he slipped out of the truck, walked around to the slender brunette, opened her door, and offered his hand to help her from the cab of the truck.

The anger that had flared in her lifted. _Holy fucking whiplash, Batman_! Isabella thought, taking his hand and sliding out of the open truck door, her Docs landing on the pavement with a light thud. Nothing graceful about Docs; they thud, simple as that. She closed the door behind her and kept her eyes on her feet, taking notice that Masen had yet to release her hand. His thumb swept across her wrist tattoo again, prompting her to lift her eyes.

Masen's gorgeous face was set in a smirk that was quickly becoming his trademark look. Slowly, he raised her hand to his mouth and lightly brushed his lips against her knuckles, his eyes steady on her coco-browns.

"Goodnight, Isabella," he said in a deep, but hushed voice. He dropped her hand and slinked back to the driver's seat.

She stepped back and watched as he pulled out of the driveway and then stood and listened to the rumble of the gunmetal truck as it drove off.

)*(

**April 10, 2014**

"I don't know … she's weird. She's totally distracted. She goes out to meet someone at a fucking spit-hole, comes home at three in the morning, and just stands in the driveway. Weird." Mary Alice wriggled in her seat, adjusting the skirt bunching under her legs. "There's gotta be a person attached to that dazed 'n' horny look on her face," she deduced; her finger tip-toeing down an expense report, looking for gaps and errors.

"Kettle, meet tea pot," Jasper said, tapping her hand with the restaurants wine list.

Mary Alice looked up sheepishly and smiled big.

"Maybe she's just in a good mood?" he offered.

She shook her head. "Nope. Good mood Bell dances in her underwear to "Walking on Sunshine."Good mood Bell eats cherry Pop Tarts and hums "I Wish I Were an Oscar Myer Weiner." Good mood Bell _does not _wash her whites with her colours or put cheese in the freezer."

"And you assume romantic interference?"

Mary Alice ordered the wine, closed the expense report she still had open in front of her, and answered, "Three things fuck with my sister's flow. A project—like home renos, a challenging tattoo." She counted off, flicking her finger upward like a jack knife. "Cock." She flicked another finger. "Pus—"

Jasper held up his hand and chuckled.

"Law of probability, sir." She slipped her bright orange stiletto off and let her bare foot wander up Jasper's muscular leg. Lightly, she nuzzled her foot between his legs, applying the gentlest pressure. Her grin grew as he shifted in his seat.

In the far corner of the restaurant, Emse sat watching the couple, feeling their names mingle on her skin, one flowing into the other until they were indistinguishable from each other. She smiled sadly, recalling a similar scene. Once upon a time, she sat in a dimly lit restaurant, flirting with a handsome man and blushing at his acknowledgments. Her life was to take a very different path, but she couldn't help but see a little of her once-upon-a-time self in the beautiful raven-haired girl. The adoration in Jasper's gestures made her smile widen, small crinkles forming at the corners of her kind, hazel eyes. When the warm rush of Witnessing subsided, she finished her white wine spritzer, paid her bill, and escaped without notice.

She slid the key card into the thin mouth and listened for the disengaging lock. Inside her suite, she tossed her keys to the bedside table, slipped her shoes off, then her dress. With care, she hung up the grey dress and tucked the coral shoes into the closet. With a wistful sigh, she dropped onto the king sized bed. After a minute or two, she climbed under the covers and reached for the television remote, surfing for something to ease her out of her memories.

Unlike Masen, Esme was well to do. Light Omens tended to fall into luck, and in 2003, Esme played the slots at The Excalibur Casino in Las Vegas, winning the casino's largest pay out on a progressive machine ever, just shy of forty million. Being an intelligent woman, Esme invested in a couple low-risk portfolios and eleven years later, Esme— sometimes Evenson, sometimes Platt—was worth an easy seventy-six million dollars now. That money came in handy when travelling for her next _story_. She knew not all Omens had the carefree life she did, and she pitied those that were forced to roam without shelter, and often food.

Omens, both Light and Dark, existed just outside the world of the living, though they very much lived and breathed like humans. _Like_ was the operative word. They appeared human for all intents and purposes, however Omens required very little to subsist. Food wasn't a necessity, but an indulgence, and sleep was an old human habit, that much like breathing, seemed to be involuntary, though not particularly needed.

Lights off, TV quietly humming away, Esme slipped off into a dreamless sleep.

)*(

"Three days," Isabella grumbled, pushing small bottles of colourful ink into a storage cupboard. "Three days." She gestured wildly in front of her and slammed the cupboard door closed.

Mary Alice stormed out of her sister's office, hands on her hips and her mouth puckered. "Who pissed in your Wheaties this mornin'? Christ, these doors can't handle much more of your abuse, Isabella Marie!"

"I hate Wheaties. An' don't fuckin' middle name me." Her eyes remained trained to the clipboard in her hand.

With a quick movement, Mary Alice snatched the clipboard from her sister and promptly swatted her upper arm with it. "Who is it? Who's got your panties all wet 'n' twisted, Little Bird?"

She just shrugged, huffed, and tried to make a grab for the clipboard, but the tiny raven-haired girl dodged her easily, taking a step back and smiling an overly sweet smile.

"Oh, c'mon, Little Bird. Don't go cloudin' and rainin' all over my parade. I'm right, and I _know_ it. Who did you go meet the other night at Redd's?" Her voice pitched high and singsong.

Bree walked over, hearing the conversation. She didn't say anything, she just looked between the two women, a little curious and a little concerned. She'd noticed Isabella's mood and distracted state too. It wasn't the norm and she wanted to know the cause.

Again, Isabella huffed. "Masen," she finally offered in a small voice.

"Who's that?" Bree asked, leaning against the wall in the hallway.

"Who's what?" Mike's voice piped in behind Bree. He stood behind her, his chin rested comfortably on the top of her head.

"Jesus Christ on Christmas cookie!" Isabella groaned, looking at the small crowd that had gathered in the hall. She looked to Bree. "The missed opportunity outside of Lucy's."

Bree just grinned knowingly and nodded. Mike and Mary Alice wore similar well-out-with-it expressions.

"A few weeks ago we were all at Lucy's … the night I introduced Em and Rosie," she prompted. "I was drunk, he offered to hail a cab for Bree and me, and my face was all fucked." Isabella's hand swept over her face.

"Facial slur," both Mike and Mary Alice deadpanned, nodding to one another.

"Anyway … I saw him again Saturday. He's the bartender at Lucy's. Gave him my number." She looked to Michael. "He saw us in the alley." Her head tilted just the slightest and a slow smirk worked its way across her face.

"Saw you in the alley, _what_?" Mary Alice asked, eyebrows hiding in her hairline.

Isabella cleared her throat and rocked on her heels, but said nothing. Mike stood behind Bree, silent, but smug as fuck.

"Oh. My. God," Mary Alice whispered, shaking her head.

"Wha—" Bree stopped mid-word and gasped, holding her hand to her heart. "He saw you … you two?" In a childish gesture, she jabbed her index finger through a ring she'd made with her other hand, the universal, if crude, sign for screwing.

"Three," Mike corrected. "And Jessie's still smilin' about that. Thank you." He rolled his hand away from his head, like tipping a hat, and bowed.

"Holy doodle … you're all whores. I work with whores," Bree said, shaking her head and putting her arm around Isabella's waist. "But I love you all." Bree's honesty and sweetness were a shining quality that the Swan Dive crew admired greatly, regardless of how much shit they dished at her, they wouldn't wish her any other way.

Isabella kissed Bree's hairline and smiled.

"Want my advice?" Bree asked, looking to her boss.

"Um advice from _Saint Bree _of the French Quarters … mmmaybe not," Isabella hummed the word, shaking her head and wrinkling her nose at her young friend.

Bree chuckled and pinched her co-worker's side. "Call him. He called you, so you've got his number, silly." She tipped her head in an _obvious-solution_ kind of way, then turned and strolled back down the hall toward the front of the store.

"Smart girl," Mike commented, nodding his approval.

"Go. Call. I'll finish the list. Half of these fuckin' numbers are probably wrong anyway."

Isabella made a sound as if to protest, but was quickly cut off.

"I found your toothbrush, by the way … In the fridge … next to the jam. Go. Call. Please," she begged, clasping her hands together in prayer.

"Assholes, all of you," she mumbled and turned toward her office, then stopped dead and spun to face Mike and Mary Alice. "Did she call us _whores_?" Her brown eyes went saucer wide.

Mike stared for a moment before opening his mouth. "Well pick my peas! I think Baby Bree just broke her naughty hymen"

)*(

Isabella sat at her desk, wiped her slick hands on her skin tight jeans—twice—then rooted through her bag for her cell phone. Sliding her finger across the screen, she searched the call log and low and behold, Masen's number. She thought of the way his fingertips caressed the inside skin of her wrist and the way his warm lips grazed her knuckles and then tapped out a quick message and hit send.

Two seconds later the text failed. She tried again. Failed.

"Damn it." She hit call, mumbling something about big girl panties and held her breath. She hated that he made her nervous. Nervousness wasn't a natural part of her repertoire. Her cool, calm (mostly) collectedness she got from her mother, and it was something she prided herself on.

Mary Alice, on the other hand, was a shoot first ask questions later type of gal, much like their father, Charlie. He was sweet, analytical, often a man of few words—not a trait Mary Alice picked up—curious, and sometimes a little shy.

Renee, the girls' mother, was bubbly in that infectious, need-to-be-near-you kind of way. She was mellow and not easily shaken. She was honest, sometimes to a fault, but that was the thing Charlie had loved most about her. That, and to the best of Isabella's memory, her killer ass. The sisters would giggle and roll their eyes every time they caught him ogling his wife's backside.

"Um … hello?" Masen's voice was so uncertain and puzzled, she was sure she'd caught him at a bad time.

"Masen, it's Isabella, did I catch you—"

"Yeah. What?" His tone was clipped, terse.

She pulled the phone away from her ear and gave it a what-the-fuck look before drawing it back to her. _Obviously that was a gentle let down_, she thought of his actions outside the truck. Seeing them differently now.

"Okay," she breathed out. "My mistake." She slowly began to lower the phone to her lap, still throwing evil glares at it, finger hovering over the End Call button.

"No … wait!" She heard him call out.

She brought the phone back to her ear and made a low noise, letting him know she was still there.

"I mean …" He let out a long, defeated sigh. "Hold on while I gag that asshole and shove 'em in the closet."

Isabella chuckled softly, shaking her head.

"Did I get you at a bad time?" she asked.

"No, yeah … no. I … shit."

Again, Isabella laughed and something inside her relaxed a little more.

"I don't get a lot of calls, what with my _shining personality_ and all. I'm an asshole, 'kay?"

"Agreed," she said with a touch of humour.

"So, to what do I owe the honour?"

Her natural snark and candor spat the words forward before she had the chance to swallow them. "Bored, horny, lonely. Really itching for a game of racquetball, actually. Not a euphemism," she clarified, "I haven't played in weeks. Care to join me?"

"Uh … you're asking me out? To play racquetball, not have sex? Just to clarify."

"I don't have sex with assholes."

"Well then, count this asshole in."

)*(

Isabella walked into the enclosed court in tiny black shorts and a bright green exercise bra.

_She's got a thing for that fuck-ugly colour_.

But the fuck-ugly colour took a back seat to the words inked on Isabella's upper right thigh that Masen couldn't drag his eyes away from.

"_Now it occurred to him that perhaps Terabithia was like a castle where you came to be knighted. After you stayed for a while and grew strong, you had to move on. For hadn't Leslie, even in Terabithia, tried to push back the walls of his mind and make him see beyond to the shining world—huge and terrible and beautiful and very fragile? (Handle with care—everything—even the predators.)_

"It was my favourite book as a child." She interrupted his blatant ogling, bouncing the small rubber ball on the court.

"Can't say I recognize the quote." Masen finally brought his eyes up her body—slowly—to her face.

"_Bridge to Terabithia_. Read it about forty times after my parents died. I kind felt like its pages were the only thing holding me up sometimes." She turned to Masen, her eyes soft and a little lost, and he hated the vulnerability he saw in them. Hated the way it made his chest heavy and full all at the same time.

When he didn't speak, Isabella looked over to him, giving him a once over, quirking her brow. "You're gonna sweat balls in a long sleeve, Masen. Lose the shirt. I promise I won't stare. Much."

Masen rocked uncomfortably from one foot to the next. It'd been a lifetime since he had anything close to a relationship. Anything that was just his, and his selfish need to connect with another human took over, common sense walked right out fucking door. He should have said no, he should have hung up the moment he registered her voice. But he didn't.

He was bone tired of being pulled by some invisible pulse. He was tired of watching Death come again and again. He was tired of being alone. For a split second, Masen thought about pulling his shirt of his head and letting it drop to the ground. He thought about laying it all out for Isabella to see.

How would he explain _her_ name on _his_ skin? How could he possibly account for the defining moments of her twenty-eight years inked across his upper body? And the way the ink writhed and moved, as if it were a living thing, slithering to a call neither could hear.

No, he would keep his shirt on.

"Lose the green bra-top thing. I promise I won't stare. Much," he challenged, eyes roaming her slender, creamy body. Tattoo's popping out here and there, making his mouth water.

"A smooth talking asshole—unheard of." She shook her head and a sly grin pulled the corners of her mouth up. "C'mere." She waved him over and went over the rules, talking about foot placement, faults, service areas, and receiving areas, skips … and somewhere around balls hitting the wall, he lost his focus on her words and pictured her back against the court wall, naked, ugly bright green bra nowhere to be found.

They played for an hour. At first he was lost in the way she moved and grunts that skipped from her mouth every time she swung the racket. Her long limbs served her well as she bounced around the court perusing the ball. He watched her muscles tense and contract, watched her soft skin dampen with sweat, watched that sweat follow invisible streams down her neck, between her breasts.

When wanting morphed and was replaced by an old self-hate and anger, he focused it all on that little red ball, relishing the pounding of his feet against the court, and satisfying _smack_ of the ball against the front wall. Sweat dripped from him, his breathing was heavy, but his frustration was much less.

"I get it now," Masen panted.

"What?" She tossed a towel at him.

"The game. Why you play." He blew out, bending forward and placing his hands on his knees, looking up at Isabella. "No mercy, no fucks given. Great way to release a little pent up rage."

She nodded, taking a long pull from her water bottle before offering it to Masen.

"So tell me, beautiful ink slinger, what's got your panties so bunched up that you feel the need to abuse this rubber ball so fucking thoroughly, huh?"

For a moment she said nothing, did nothing, then slowly her face turned toward him.

"You."

**END NOTES:**

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	9. A Little Honesty

**Disclaimer: This lime green and teal housecoat is all mine, bitches! But that's about it. No infringement intended. **

**The wonderful ladies helping me out on this one: Maxipoo and Lynzylee. I keep waiting for them to realize I'm not worth the ass-pain, but no, they are wonderful and amazing and keep coming back for more. Silly, sweet girls. THANK YOU. **

**Alrighty folks, catch ya at the bottom. **

**Chapter 8**

_~A Little Honesty~_

**June 20, 1915**

_A loud popping sound pushed through the course of voices and music, moving with such force that it displaced the air to the left of Masen's head. _

_Two fingers of whiskey cupped in beautifully-cut glass slipped from his hand, moving in slow motion, like the world had jerked to a stop. That one glass fought to keep moving, but the strain on it was nearly too much. It clamoured to the ground, shattering in a million sharp shards; the amber liquid splattered all around him. _

_Masen reached for his gun, taking aim at the men that had entered the bar. In a hasty action, he flung his arm out in front of him, cocking the hammer and squeezing the trigger. The bullet flew from the chamber, forcing a shudder through his body that worked up his right arm and resonated clear through each muscle and bone, straight to his toes._

_The bullet connected with flesh, and Masen watched as a dark stain spread like an ink blot on a light grey jacket. The man dropped his gun and clutched his right shoulder, cursing. _

_Masen spoke in loud, harsh voice as he walked toward him, gun still raised and at the ready. "Are you fucking simple? Bringing your men here!" _Here_ was The Lock and Keel—Cullen territory—the bar his uncle, Felix, built (on dirty money). It provided the curtain that hid the Cullen family's dark dealings from the eyes of the Seattle law, and had been for eight years._

_And now Edgar-fucking-Four-Eyes-Foils was busting up the place, looking to claim the city of Seattle for himself and his pathetic band of merry men. _

_Masen aimed the gun at Edgar's head. "Fool," he whispered as he pulled the trigger. The smell of gunpowder was strong, and the ringing in his ears nearly drowned out the screams of the women cowering behind tipped tables. _

_Before he could lower his gun, Masen heard another shot pulse through the room, and just like the whiskey in the glass, he fought against gravity. His knees hit the floor; he blinked and looked down at his chest. The new white shirt he'd bought earlier that day burst into a mix of reds— vibrant and bright at the outer edges of the growing stain, darker and richer in the centre. _

_It looked to him as if it were happening in tiny increments inching outward at a steady, but sluggish pace, but all the while hell roared on around him. The quick and darting movements seemed unreal and out of place to Masen. _

_Slowly, so slowly, his body slouched to the wooden floor, too heavy to fight anymore. _

"_Gravity wins again," he'd thought. _

_He turned his head to the side, watching feet scramble about the place; where, he didn't know. Then, through jostling bodies and the chaos, a dark grey image emerged, as if sprung from fog. As it neared, Masen watched the shape shift and within seconds, a man, dressed in charcoal was crouched before him. _

"_A hundred years of service. A hundred years of Witnessing death. You will write their histories. The key to your salvation will be born in pain and written upon your skin."_

**)*(**

"So tell me, beautiful ink slinger, what's got your panties so bunched up that you feel the need to abuse this rubber ball so fucking thoroughly, eh?"

For a moment she said nothing, did nothing, then slowly her face turned toward him.

"You."

Masen stared up at her, tying his shoelace in a kind of rote, mechanical way. He stood and walked slowly toward her, and she shifted uncomfortably. He traced one finger from elbow to wrist, feeling the moisture on her skin.

"Why?" he asked, watching the rise and fall of her chest.

Her breath stuttered on the way in. "A little honesty … I don't know, Masen." She shook her head and dropped her eyes to his hand now clasped around her wrist. Isabella had never been the girl that chased down her crushes or obsessed over someone. She'd experienced want. She wanted Kory-Rae, she wanted Riley, but she never _needed_ them. Need would have made walking away impossible. It was much easier to shut the door on want. But what festered inside her was something just outside of want. It was something she couldn't really define and wrap up neatly with a few words. She wanted him, yes, but she didn't know why she felt as though she _needed_ to pursue him.

"There's this ribbon …" Isabella motioned between them and let her hand rest on his chest, feeling him pull at the air slowly, so controlled. "The more I pull away, the tighter it gets. You can't tell me it's not the same for you. You wouldn't be here if it wasn't." She knew it was the truth, and she smiled sadly.

"You shouldn't say shit like that."

The warning was in his voice, but she couldn't accept it. "Why? It's honest." She stepped closer to Masen, leaving only the slightest bit of space between them. The air moving around them was warm and carried the smell of sweat on it.

"It's dangerous." Though his tone was clipped, his face was soft and almost troubled. Isabella could nearly see the two halves ripping apart, pulling at Masen.

"You're dangerous?" she said, incredulous. "Nope. Sorry. I don't believe that for a minute." She crossed her arms over her chest, defiant. Masen's hand never moved. "Do you want to hurt me? Is that what's in it for you?"Staring headlong into his eyes, she watched for a tell or something that would provide her with a little information. Quiet, patient, she waited for him to speak, but instead he dropped his head, eying his shoes. Silently, he shook his head.

Was he hiding something? Yes, and she could feel it all around him like a shell, but was he dangerous? No.

Over-warm, sweaty, and muscles burning, she placed her hand on his chest, feeling his heart slam against his ribcage. "Your shirt's soaked. Shoulda ditched it."

He lurched forward, walking her body backward, both hands coming around her neck. His thumbs skimmed the undersides of her chin, angling her face upward. She gasped when her warm, exposed skin met with the cold wall.

His mouth pressed down on hers, hard and aggressive. Isabella's fingers spread wide, feeling the small dimples in the concrete behind her. Blood rose to the surface of her skin, heating her from within, and she opened her mouth, letting him in.

He took another step, trapping Isabella thoroughly. He felt her chest heave, her lungs dying for just a little more oxygen, but she refused to give up the kiss.

A tap on the plexi-glass wall that made up the back wall of the court broke them apart. A girl with a high ponytail and a purple staff shirt stood on the other side, slowly shaking her head and rubbing one index finger over the other. A funny smile flitted across her and she turned and walked away.

_Shame on us_, Isabella thought, red-faced and panting.

"Fuck," Masen groaned, turning away from the plexi-window and blatantly adjusting himself. Isabella smirked and quickly slipped passed him to the ladies' changing room.

)*(

"Fuck, that's inconvenient!" Masen complained as he closed the car door behind him, Isabella laughing a full, throaty laugh as she slipped behind the wheel.

"You know the average adult male gets eleven erections in a day. Eleven! Fucking inconvenience."

He laughed with her, loving the sound of it, and missing the way life could be so light.

"Eleven. Christ, that seems … excessive. And what number was that, dare I ask?" The engine purred and the frame rumbled as the green car came to life.

"Four. That was the fourth, and it's only fucking two p.m." He shook his head, grimacing. "Morning wood, which though it has its merit, and sometimes serves a purpose, it's mostly fucking useless. Then there was the shower," he continued. "Apparently, a little soap and the right water pressure is all it takes."

He watched as her tiny frame shook with laughter. He couldn't remember the last time he pulled a reaction like that from another person.

"Oh, and the wicked hard-on I got when you called this morning." His voice wavered just the slightest, as if he'd admitted too much. "And, well, you witnessed the last one. Your fault, again."

Her chuckle slowed and she put the car into drive, pulling away from the fitness centre toward the old motel where she'd picked Masen up.

Silence filled the car. Awkward silence was something Isabella hated almost as much as the hum of cicada bugs in the summer. Fuckers kept her up all night sometimes.

"You should come for dinner," she suggested, nervously tapping the wheel. Her eyes darted from the road to Masen and back again.

"You cook?"

"Not even a little, but I have all the best places on speed dial."

He grinned.

"Cooking's a Mary Alice trait, something she picked up from Mom. She got all the domestic good-wife skills. Great with finances, food, even finds cleaning relaxing."

"But not you?" Masen was curious, and his head tipped and quirked like a dog trying to decipher his master's words.

"No. No domestic diva here, but I can rebuild the engine of a 1967 Chevy, refinish old furniture, and blend the perfect shade of red for blood." She shrugged and turned the wheel to the right, watching the traffic around them.

"Valid skills," he replied, nodding.

"So is evasion. Come for dinner."

His teeth pinched his bottom lip as he considered her invitation. Pain lanced him as new words, new pieces of her history appeared on his chest. Absently, he rubbed at it."Six o'clock," he finally answered.

"Six," she repeated.

)*(

Six p.m. came and went. Isabella packed up the food and dragged herself up the stairs, to her studio-room. The smell of paint filled her nose as she opened the door. With a huff, she stripped out of her clothes leaving them in a heap by the door and threw on the white paint-smeared wifebeater that sat on the table top.

The steamy night air poured into the room as she opened the window and pulled a nicely rolled joint from a small tin Coca-Cola box sitting on a table covered in art supplies. In her underwear and a slightly oversized, over-worn tank, she held the joint between her lips and tied her hair up in a messy ponytail.

As she lit the end of the joint, she inhaled deeply, pulling smoke into her lungs. After a few good pulls, she went to the canvass she'd begun a few days ago, brush in hand.

Two hours passed, and Isabella had moved on to a blank canvass. Dark colours formed fuzzy shapes. Eyes, delicately patterned feathers, and large, intimidating wings were taking form. Sharp, eye-popping red encased the form. She stepped back, looking at it.

An owl.

She cocked her head, looking into its pitch black eyes, that didn't seem quite deep enough. Behind her, the door creaked open, but she didn't turn, she just continued to stare into the birds dark eyes.

"Sorry, Mar. I'll turn down the music." She moved toward the stereo on the corner of the table to lower the volume when a rough hand reached out and stopped her movement. She jumped and then turned quickly preparing to fight.

He caught her arm as she swung blindly.

"Stop!"

The voice pulled her focus, and standing before her was Masen, a deep sadness in his eyes. He looked defeated and worn down.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, just barely louder than the music still playing. "Your sister let me in. I shouldn't … I shouldn't be here." His words were strained, as if he were begging her to understand something.

He clutched the hem of her shirt in one hand, his other still gripping her warm, silky skin.

Isabella's nostrils flared. Anger and rejection lit her face. She wanted to push him right back out that door and gave him an ineffectual shove.

"I'm sorry," he said again.

The desperation in his words, in the way his hands fisted the material and pulled her forward broke Isabella's anger, and whatever vitriol she was about to spit at him died in her mouth. Her small hand reached up cupped the back of his neck, pulling him down to her.

Inches from her lips, he said, "I won't be able to stop it. I can't stop it. I'm sorry." His hands trembled and his body began to quiver, as though he were stripped bare and left in the cold.

"Don't," Isabella said in a hushed voice, pushing up on her toes and bringing her mouth to his.

**End Notes:**

**Yeah, this is what I do. I'm a serial cliffie-writer lady. Max and Lynz would probably call me Evil right about now. Or Cliffie-whore. That works too. Annnnyway, thanks tons for reading. Tell me what you're thinking. **

**Oh and The Lock and Keel is/was an actual bar in the area (Seattle) and it was one of the few I could find that was reportedly in existence at the time. Hell of a time finding building records for that era by the way. **

**Playlist**

_**Flawless –**_** The Neighborhood**

_**Catalyst **_**– Anna Nalick**


	10. Rabbit Hole

**A/N: New tattoo, mine. Twilight, not mine. No infringement intended. **

**For those of you that require warnings: LEMON AHEAD!**

**Chapter 9**

~_Rabbit Hole_~

"Don't," she said, and Masen didn't miss the edge of anger in her voice. Not anger for being stood up, no. Her anger was hidden in the idea that he might hold back, or worse, walk away altogether.

Her grip on his neck tightened and as her tongue slid against his, he knew the moment his shirt came off he would have one-hundred and thirty-one years of explaining to do.

Masen pulled her dirty, paint-splattered tank over her head, exposing her small but full and perfectly round breasts. More ink swirled between them, and he bent his body to taste them.

_Do I start with the first person I killed?_

His tongue swirled around Isabella's hard, dark pink nipple, and she let out a loud groan. She never was one to hold back on praise.

_The first time a gun was placed in my hands?_

He dropped to his knees in front of her, his hands anchored around her waist, head craning upward just the slightest to reach her heaving tits. He sucked hard on the already sensitive flesh, dark pink becoming a deeper, bruised red. Her hands fisted Masen's hair, making him ache all the more.

_The first time I saw disappointment in my father's eyes?_

His hands shifted down to her hips, fingers digging into her surely leaving marks. Slowly, Masen lowered his face, letting his hot breath wash over her skin. He breathed in, smelling the excitement on her skin, then delivered a long, firm lick to her pant- clad pussy.

_June 20__th__, 1915? The night I died. The night I became an Omen?_

"Christ," she panted, her voice wavering. With her hand on the back of his head, she pushed his face into the wet heat between her legs.

He chuckled, grabbing her ass and squeezing. He wanted to give her this, this moment of pleasure before he destroyed it. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of her navy blue panties and slipped them down her bare legs, kissing her thigh and her knees as he went.

She stepped out and looked down at him. The torn look on his face confused her. Like touching her burned, but he couldn't help himself. As he brought his face back up her body, their eyes locked.

"Wider," he demanded, nudging her knee with the backside of his hand.

She obeyed, her heart pounding and her head involuntarily lolling back.

He lost himself in the taste of her; the tang and sweetness washed away his past, his name, and his future.

She came hard, her body curling forward, breathless and spent, but he kept lapping and nibbling until she shook and pushed him away, far too sensitive to tolerate his aggressive mouth another moment.

"Stop. Fuck, Masen." She slumped to the floor, her back pressed to the cold wall behind her.

He stayed where he was, kneeling in front of her, face to face now. Dread started to pool in his stomach, pushing the lust from his veins.

"Why weren't you here?" she asked in a hoarse voice, her arms wrapped around her knees.

He took a deep breath. He knew he had to tell her, had to let the past destroy this, because _this_—_her_—he knew he couldn't have. Shouldn't have. He reached behind and pulled his shirt over his head. He gripped it in his hands, wringing the material nervously.

Her eyes raked over his shoulders, his well built chest, down his arms. There was so much ink, her eyes didn't know where to focus. Then she gasped and he knew what she was seeing. Moving, wringing ink … and her name.

Reaching out, she grabbed his upper arm, twisting it to read her full name on his shoulder. Her mind went in about eight different directions at once. Her name, her parents names, details of her life all scrolled across his arms and chest. Why? Why did he know these things about her, why had he tattooed them on his body? _Better question_, she thought, _why is that motherfucking ink moving? _She watched it for a moment, traced by the odd, almost snake-like movement of the words penned on his flesh. Then she opened her mouth and spoke the first thing that fell out.

"How … why the _fuck_ is my name tattooed on you?" she demanded, cocking her head. "Why is it moving like that, Masen?"

Suddenly, as flash of pain crumpled Masen's face and he put his hand to his chest, groaning. Isabella watched in horror as words appeared on his flesh as if penned by an invisible hand. She focused on the words more closely, leaning toward him, fingers tracing letters. His skinned burned hot against her fingertips, irritated and slightly red.

"My birthday … my parents' names …" She shook her head, tears welling in her beautiful brown eyes. Looking for an answer and so very terrified of what he might reveal, she begged, "Mason?" _He can't be human_, she surmised, and her thoughts splintered further. The rabbit hole grew, plunging Isabella into a new reality.

"My name is Edward Anthony Cullen. I was born in Ireland in 1883. I died in Seattle in 1915." He hung his head and waited for her to scream, to strike out at him, anything.

She moved closer, surprisingly, and studied the new words that rose to the surface of his skin. "I don't understand," she admitted in a small, scared voice. "Died?" She blindly searched behind her for the discarded tank, suddenly feeling more naked in that moment than she ever had before. Pulling the tank down over head, she stood, her lips pursed, pacing back and forth while Masen sat like a stone."Edward Cullen?" she muttered and looked down at him. "Masen's not ever you're real name!" She shot an angry, accusatory glare him. "Didn't even know his fucking name, and I let him eat me out." Now she was just yelling at herself, her pacing quickening.

"Edward Cullen died in 1915," Masen said in a small voice, not lifting his eyes off the floor.

"But how?!" Isabella screamed, stopping in her tracks, arms pitched into the air. "How in the happy hell are you doing _that_?" She pointed a twirling finger at his torso. She shook her head again, then stormed over to Coke tin, ripped off the lid and headed for the open window, chucking the contents out into the night. "Bad trip … shit's gotta be laced."

Masen almost laughed, watching her huck her weed out the window, bare-assed and sure a bad high was the logical explanation for this. He choked back the chuckle and pushed to his feet.

"Unfortunately, that's the least fucked thing I've got to tell you." He put his shirt back on and moved to lean against the table.

"Really? 'Cause dead guy with creepy moving tats is a pretty fucked thing, Mas." She stopped and turned toward him. "Wait, what the hell do I call you?"

"Masen. Please. I left Edward behind a hundred years ago."

Isabella pulled her navy underwear back on and crossed her arms over her chest in a defensive stance. She stood eyeing Masen from across the room, watching his face, analyzing his every move.

_When someone says they died a hundred years ago, you run, you laugh in their face … you offer them a fucking hard drink! You don't stand there wondering how the hell _that_ happened_. Her head spun, addled by confusion, but not an ounce of fear. For a fleeting moment she wondered if she were having sort medical emergency, but aside from the residual throbbing between her legs and her slightly raised pulse, physically speaking, she felt fine.

"Vampire?" she mumbled, more to herself than anything.

Masen let out a dark chuckle. "No. Dark Omen. Vampires are a fairly modern monster, created by authors and the over-imaginative to tackle issues like mortality, God, good versus evil. All that shit. They live in the pages of fiction, not in reality." He took a deep breath and continued. "Omens have been around _much_ longer."

"What the fuck is an _Omen_?" Isabella pictured black cats, rainbows, broken mirrors, but obviously her knowledge of the subject was a tad … off.

"Get comfortable," he said and watched as she let her body puddle to the floor.

She looked like a small child, sitting crisscross applesauce, looking up at him with her hands in her lap. He was kind of amazed that she hadn't called the men in white to come collect his lunatic ass. Instead, she sat and waited to hear his story and understand him. _Amazing_, he thought.

Masen gripped the back of his neck and gave his head a slow roll before he spoke. "Right, well …" He picked his brain for the words. "I think the beginning is a fine place to start."

She nodded, not taking her eyes off the creature in front of her. Awe welled up somewhere inside of her, and for a quick moment she considered that maybe that wasn't the most sane response.

"I was eleven years old the first time I felt the weight of a pistol. My father, Carlisle Cullen, put it there, and it was the first time I saw a genuine look of pride on his face, at least where I was concerned," Masen began. "He dragged me out of bed at first light and brought me out to the field that backed our property. There we stayed, firing off shot after shot until the gloaming set in, and I was so damn tired and sore that my arms shook. He grew frustrated with my lack of skill and sent me back to the house, mumbling about his only son being a waste of 'good seed'."

Isabella frowned, picturing a lanky Masen and his cruel father. She took a second to thank the Gods that she'd been blessed with wonderful parents, even if their time together had been far too short.

Masen went on tell Isabella about his father's driven and corrupt ways and about the move that brought him to Seattle when he was fourteen. Carlisle had quickly and effectively appointed himself the head of a small but growing Irish mob in the heart of Seattle. Has his reputation grew in the community, so had his reach. Soon enough, Carlisle Cullen was shuffling shady deals in nearby cities.

For Masen, following in his father's footsteps was the last fucking thing he wanted for his life, but sadly, it was his only option. Carlisle would accept nothing less, and so he sent his son to do his dirty work.

In the name of his father, Edward Anthony Cullen, had murdered no less than eighteen people by his thirty-second birthday. Each life weighed heavily on his soul, making his body tired and heavy with regret. And hate, so much hate. Hate for his father and the choices he made, for the life he was forced into, but the greater part of the hate and anger he felt was aimed at himself for never leaving.

"His one redeeming quality was his love for women," Masen said, looking past Isabella, so far past her. "He respected the hell out women. Used to say, 'Any creature that can create life deserves the world at her feet, always.' If it weren't for that _one thing_, I'd be inclined to think he was some sort of fuckin' demon sent to make me miserable." Masen shifted his eyes, finally looking at Isabella. He let the silence span out for a moment before continuing.

"The night I died," he recounted, "a man appeared all in grey. I figured it was Death coming to get me. I was wrong." He told her about the agreement, one hundred years of penance and Witnessing and then, when his soul had been washed clean, he would be allowed to enter Paradise and claim the peace he never had in life.

"The sins of the father," Isabella mumbled, her jaw tense.

Masen leaned back against the wall on the opposite side of the room, head back and his eyes closed. "Yeah … something like that."

"So now you're all undead and collecting stories on your skin?" Isabella's knees were pulled up and tucked tightly to her chest, her arms wrapped around them.

_An armour of skin and bone_, Masen thought.

"Yes."

"It hurts?" she asked, remembering the pained look on his face as new words surfaced.

"Burns like a motherfucker. Lucky fuckin' Lights get a nice rush out of the deal. They get all blissed out and high, while Dark Omens writhe in pain."

"Raw deal." A small smile crept across her face, and Masen noticed the sex-flush had faded and though her pale pallor was stunning, he rather missed the blush, and he hoped she'd allow him a chance at restoring it. It was a hope that was sure to fuckin' sink, but he wanted for it all the same.

"Why? What's the point?" she asked, pushing her legs straight out in front of her.

_God, those legs are amazing_. Masen snagged a selfish moment to take in the sight of her naked, creamy legs. His eyes ran up her body and his emerald green met her chocolate brown. That question was a loaded question, and the very source of the gnarly chewing, growing pit in his stomach. He hated what was coming next; Masen had no choice but to lay out all the cards.

"Omens have one purpose, record history, take down the stories. History is built from both horrible and beautiful lives and events, some small, others much greater. Omens absorb it all." Swallowing hard, his fists bunched tightly at his sides.

"We're made of two groups. Light Omens and Dark Omens. Light Omens are born of truly good people who've struggled and suffered. They're given the choice to become an Omen when they die, given the chance to see the wonderful side of life. A side they may not have experienced in their prior life. They can opt out at any time. Light Omens collect the stories of life, births, marriages, medical breakthroughs that change the word. Mother Theresa had a Light Omen attached to her from birth to death. Her story was long, powerful, and an important part of human history," he said, hoping the example would put the role into prospective.

Isabella nodded, but something in her face had changed. She knew, she could feel that something terrible was right there, waiting for her.

Masen watched the awe seep from her face. Something akin to understanding began to surface. "Dark Omens, like myself, are the Witnesses of Death, of loss and grief. We're made to suffer, that's our penance."

"Masen, why is my name on your arm?" she asked again, her voice was low, almost a whisper, but he heard the quiver in it.

"I was sent to Witness your death, Isabella."

**End notes:**

**Annnnd here comes the shouty caps. Give me your thoughts, your theories, and yeah, because I deserve it, your hate. Just remember that I love you. Unless you're being a dick. **

**Playlist:**

_**Sail-**_** AWOLNATION**

_**Something I Can Never Have-**_** Nine Inch Nails **

_**No Quarter **_**- Led Zepplin, or the cover by Tool, both are amazing. **


End file.
